


Serendipitous Occurrences

by starrysummernights



Series: As the Summer Rains Fall [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkward Romance, Blackmail, Boys In Love, Claiming Bites, Emotional Manipulation, Falling In Love, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, John Watson to the Rescue, Love Confessions, M/M, Manipulation, Omega Mycroft Holmes, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Remember that happy ending I've been promising?, Sweet, Swordfighting, Teen Romance, Threats, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/pseuds/starrysummernights
Summary: The events of the Royal Tour.





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

“Go, go, go!”

“Hurry- run!”

“Get Lestrade, get Lestrade!”

“Get the Captain!”

“Hurry- go! Go!”

“Get the Captain, get the Captain-!”

The sudden cacophony of raised voices and frightened shouting from the training yard outside was ear-splitting and Greg was already up and out of his seat and halfway across his small office when the door swung open. Dimmock, red-faced and out of breath, clung to the doorframe, looking as flustered as Greg had ever seen him.

“Captain! We don’t know what to do!”

“What’s happening?”

“It’s the Alpha Prince!” Dimmock gasped, voice vibrating with anxiety. “Sir. We don’t know what to do!-“

“What’s. Happening.” Greg repeated firmly, trying to impart some semblance of calm to his Lieutenant- but Dimmock was having none of it.

“The Alpha Prince!” He gestured frantically and if the situation didn't seem so dire, Greg would have taken him to task for beckoning at his Captain like he was a common foot soldier. As it was, he let the gesture slide. For the moment. “He’s trying to kill his uncle.”

Good.

That was Greg’s first thought.

Good riddance to the fucking trash, was his second, and he suddenly wasn’t in much of a hurry to go outside and prevent John Watson from potentially killing the Duke of Lennox.

“What do you mean?” He wanted to get the full story- and maybe give John more time to run the bastard through- before charging outside to prevent it.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? _He’s killing his uncle_!” Dimmock shouted. “He’s killing him!”

Greg sighed. He supposed it would ruin the Royal Tour if the Duke was murdered on only their third leg, the first month not even halfway over. While Mycroft would probably feel the same way Greg did about the Duke’s demise, the fallout would be a headache for him to deal with. Greg didn’t want that to happen.

So he finally relented, motioning to Dimmock, and they started down the short hallway which led outside.

“Why’s he trying to kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

“There has to be a reason.”

While John didn’t seem too fond of his uncle, he was always dutiful and never talked back, deferring to Lennox as if he still outranked him and biting his tongue no matter how irritated he was. For John to lose his temper and actually attack his uncle…

Dimmock shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. There’s been nothing out of the ordinary-Well. The Alpha’s been late to the training yard every morning this week, but he’s been in meetings with the Prince up at the castle. He hasn’t seemed bothered by it. Neither’s the Crown Prince. And the Duke’s came and kept him company while he waited for the Alpha to show up. Every morning. They’ve got along great. Talked. Laughed. The Duke even showed him a few techniques-“

Greg stopped walking. “Lennox has been spending time with Sherlock?”

Dimmock, picking up the stress in Greg’s voice, looked even more worried. “Y-yes? We…we didn’t think anything of it, sir. We’ve not been told to keep the Duke away from the Crown Prince. I mean. Why would we? He’s the uncle of the Crown Prince’s betrothed…”

“What’s he done with him?”

“Who?”

“What’s Lennox done with Sherlock?” Greg growled, losing his patience and Dimmock jumped.

“Nothing! He’s only came and talked with him. We wouldn’t have let anything untoward happen, sir! I swear! He’s not even touched the Crown Prince. They’ve just talked- and the Crown Prince never seemed distressed…It-it-it’s why we don’t understand- this morning…the Duke was talking to the Crown Prince as he’s done all week and suddenly the Alpha Prince arrived and- without even stopping- he just jumped at him. Took his uncle to the ground. They’re fighting right now! Prince John said he was going to kill him-“

Greg pushed past Dimmock. “Where’s Sherlock now?”

“It’s why I came to get you, sir! We didn’t know what to do with him!” Dimmock hurried along behind him. “Donovan grabbed him up when the two Alphas started fighting- and we know we’re not supposed to touch him but it was necessary because he could have gotten pulled into the brawl- they’re all over the place-“

“Where is he now?”

“He’s still out there! We didn’t have time to-to- we needed _you_! We can’t separate the Alpha Prince and the Duke. It’s above our rank- but we knew you could-!”

Greg cursed, walking faster. He didn’t want Sherlock outside watching what he assumed was a very bloody, violent fight between two Alphas, one that could potentially- if they were very lucky, he amended in his head- end in Lennox’s death.

But what worried him the most was the knowledge that John, always respectful, wouldn’t be trying to kill his own uncle without a very damn good reason. After hearing firsthand all the perverted things the Duke said to Mycroft, Greg’s stomach dropped, cold dread spreading through him, when he imagined what Lennox could have said to Sherlock to make John want to kill him. But Sherlock was only a child. Surely the Duke wouldn’t-

Of course he fucking would, Greg thought grimly. The Duke was depraved. It wouldn’t matter to him if Sherlock were just a child. He’d loved saying things to Mycroft to watch him blush or noticeably flounder when he didn’t understand his sexual allusions. How much more fun would it be for him to say things to someone who wouldn’t understand anything he said, no matter how outrageous, who would respond innocently and not realize? And after what had happened between Lennox and Mycroft at the first stop at Eguisheim, the Duke testing his luck when he was finally away from the Queen, Greg wasn’t surprised that Lennox wanted to exact revenge-

Greg broke into a run, Dimmock hot on his heels. He flung the outside door open, stepping into the sun, and the raised voices immediately assaulted his ears.

It was a confusing jumble of noise and movement all around, and he shoved his way to the front of the small group which had formed around the two Alphas. He pushed people aside without bothering to be nice, and took in the scene before him with wide eyes: Members of the Prince’s Guard stood around, gawping, surrounding the combatants who were on the ground, rolling, a blur of angry yelling and swinging fists. Dust rose in swirls around them. Blood droplets smeared on the ground. Greg could see that John’s sword was thankfully still on his side. He hadn’t drawn it yet. He didn’t even seem to remember he had it at the moment, instead doing his best to pummel his uncle with his fists, face drawn in a snarl.

Across the impromptu ring, Donovan had her arms wrapped around Sherlock’s chest to keep him safe and out of harm’s way. Sherlock was still holding his practice sword and both of them stared at the fighters, Sherlock’s eyes wide and mouth dropped open at the unexpected display of violence and blood the likes of which he’d never seen before.

“Fucking bastard cocksucker-“ Lennox struck his nephew with his fists as hard as he could, giving as good as he got, but John was undaunted. They rolled, over and over, John winding up on top, and he did his best to wrap his fingers around Lennox’s throat- then cried out, doubling over in pain when his uncle punched him in the side to prevent it. They rolled again-

“You son of a bitch!” John’s strained voice rose above the racket. “Make you wish you'd never looked at him- stay the fuck away from him-!”

Greg didn’t wait to hear more. He waded into the fray, called for Dimmock to help, and they started untangling the two Alphas, grappling with them. It was difficult. Neither was giving up. They were still punching and clawing and kicking at each other. John fought against Greg’s hold, straining towards his uncle.

“I’ll kill you for what you said- I’ll fucking kill you for what you said to him-!”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post shorter chapters (2k-3k words each) for this installment instead of massive 8k or 9k words like the others have been. Because of work, I don't have much time to write and I think this will keep me from getting burned out. I hope that's okay with everyone. That's why the chapter numbers have been bumped up.

**2 weeks previous**

“But why can’t he?”

The Queen faltered at John’s interruption, giving him a confused look. “Why can’t he…what?”

“Why can’t Sherlock ride alongside me in the procession tomorrow? Why does he have to ride in the carriage?”

“Sherlock can’t ride alongside you in the procession because he’s an _Omega_.” Queen Holmes stressed, her voice carrying in the large, formal dining room which, despite the hundreds of candles illuminating even the furthest recesses, was mostly empty that evening. Everyone in the Court had foregone a complicated meal requiring them to dress in costume and conduct polite conversation, instead eating privately in their own rooms and taking the time to ready themselves for an early departure in the morning. The royal family were therefore eating by themselves, the Queen insisting on keeping Court etiquette despite the fact that everyone at the table besides herself needed to go to bed so they could be up early the next morning too.

John had been annoyed at her insistence at first. It was an inconvenience because all of his clothes were already packed for the Tour. Stamford had been forced to dig them back out of John’s trunks and get them pressed, then help John struggle into them, buttoning and tying and stuffing him into the ceremonial garb just so he could attend _dinner_. John hadn’t been able to contain his irritation. The entire thing was a colossal waste of his time.

Not only that, he’d fumed, but it was very thoughtless of the Queen to require everyone to eat with her…as if they didn’t all have important things which needed doing, or last-minute packing or anything better than sitting for upwards of two hours eating food which could’ve been eaten in their own rooms just as well.

But John was glad about being forced to attend the annoying dinner now, as Sherlock gave him a small, resigned smile from across the table and went back to cutting up his potato with very unenthusiastic jabs of his fork.

“It would hardly be proper,” Queen Holmes continued, “for the Omega Crown Prince of Northumbria to ride through the streets of Marseille on horseback like a common peasant.”

“Well. We’ll all be riding through the streets on horseback like common peasants tomorrow, won’t we? So he’ll just blend right in with the rest of us.” John quipped, and beneath the table, Stamford gave him a vicious pinch.

Across the table, Captain Lestrade made a choked sound, quickly hiding his mouth behind his napkin and Prince Mycroft gave his Captain a very unimpressed look.

Queen Holmes smiled thinly. “Do you really want all of Marseille staring at your betrothed?”

John didn’t give a flying godsdamn if people stared at Sherlock. The idea that he would was absurd, but he bit his tongue to keep from actually saying that to the Queen.

“I would prefer that my betrothed ride alongside me in the procession.” He said evenly, aware that Sherlock was watching the exchange with bated breath. They hadn’t really discussed it, but John thought he knew what Sherlock wanted- and he was willing to politely argue with Queen Holmes all night if it meant he could give Sherlock what he wanted.

“I should have thought, as Sherlock’s Alpha, that such a thing would be abhorrent to you, John, considering the very public way your Omega will be displayed while on horseback, in a position for literally thousands of Alphas to see, ogling him as if he were a bejeweled prostitute in the market.”

Stamford gave John another vicious pinch as a precursor, to head off John’s cutting retort- and John’s wince of pain was luckily enough to mask his incredulous look.

“I understand your concerns, Your Majesty.” He tried to sound deferential instead of condescending but wasn’t sure he pulled it off. “But as long as Sherlock isn’t doing anything outrageous, and as long as he’s properly clothed and demure and not acting like a, uh, bejeweled prostitute in the market…I don’t see the harm of other Alphas looking at him. He knows how to conduct himself and I’ll be with him the whole time. He’ll stay at my side. And I’d kill any Alpha who tried to get close to him for any reason.” He said. “I’m Alpha enough to protect him.” He added, and the Queen’s eyes lit up at the possessive self-assuredness- just like John had expected.

“That’s very commendable, John, and I agree that Sherlock may know how to conduct himself properly in front of a crowd…but he’s been sheltered his entire life. He’s never been in a position to be stared at by strange Alphas and I’m afraid the whole experience would be too upsetting for him.”

John doubted it. He’d never seen a sign of Sherlock being reticent about things like that…and Sherlock was practically vibrating in his seat with suppressed eagerness. His yearning to ride in the procession was palpable. John didn’t blame him. He knew that Sherlock didn’t want to stay in a dark, cramped carriage with nothing to do, looking out the window, while everyone else was on horseback, enjoying the sun and wind and all the excitement of being in the procession.

“I’ve raised him to be a proper Omega,” Queen Holmes said. “And that means he would be mortified at being the object of attention of strange Alphas in such a location.”

John opened his mouth, ready to argue. “I very seriously doubt-“

“The people would enjoy seeing Sherlock.” Prince Mycroft murmured and all eyes turned to him in surprise.

“What do you mean, Mycroft?”

“Sherlock’s the Omega Crown Prince. He’s already a favorite among the people. A sort of mascot, if you will.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, but didn’t say anything, not wanting to discourage Mycroft since he was arguing in his favor.

“The people feel protective of him, even those who have never seen him- which are many of them. The vast majority, I’d say. It’s as you said: he’s been closely sheltered his entire life. Which was the decent thing to do.” Mycroft inclined his head, and John marveled at his cool courtesy which the Queen soaked up like a sponge. “But Sherlock is older now, and recently betrothed. The people want to see John, yes, and be introduced to their future King, but I think they’d love seeing Sherlock with John. He will be their Consort one day.” He pointed out. “They want to know what he looks like, and how he conducts himself.”

“Hm.” Queen Holmes stroked her bottom lip, not looking entirely convinced, and Mycroft continued.

“Tomorrow will be a perfect opportunity for Sherlock to make a good impression on his future subjects. If he manages it, he will win the people over and they’ll be devoted to him on his own merit, not just on hearsay. And he won’t be alone. John will be with him, as will I, and the entire Guard will be surrounding us. No one would dare attempt a liberty with him.”

“I suppose…when you put it that way… _perhaps_ it wouldn’t do any harm for Sherlock to ride in the procession...”

Sherlock sucked in a sharp, excited breath. He looked ready to explode- but reigned it in when his mother gave him a stern look.

“Sherlock. You do promise to be on your best behavior tomorrow if you are allowed to ride in the procession.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sherlock nodded just the same. “Yes, ma’am. I promise.”

“I agree with Mycroft that the people want to see you, and it would benefit their image of you to see you acting like a decent, upstanding Omega.” She emphasized. “And your Alpha wants you beside him. I believe John’s wishes should be honored. You know what is expected of you. If I hear that you have behaved as anything less, you will not be allowed to leave the palace until you are married. At all. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sherlock lowered his eyes, appearing reserved to placate her, but when she turned her attention away he grinned at John with impish glee. John mirrored him- before receiving another pinch from Stamford and arranged his face into a more acceptable expression.

But something inside him was soothed at seeing Sherlock so happy and he tried not to examine too much just why that was.

* * *

 

John could feel Sherlock’s excitement as they left the dining room, first bowing to Queen Holmes and her Consort (the Omega was coming with them on the Tour, and John didn’t know if this were a good thing or not. He didn’t know much about the Omega Consort, Sherlock and Mycroft’s father. The Omega never said much, didn’t seem to have his own opinions, and deferred to his mate most of the time while smiling indulgently at his two sons. Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to love him in a careless, diffident way which made John think the Omega wasn’t a threat. Not like Queen Holmes). Sherlock managed to hold it together until they were all out of the doors and up the stairs before he shouted, jumping with happiness.

“Thank you!” He rushed forward and squeezed his brother around the middle. Mycroft looked surprised but pleased, but he’d barely started to return the embrace before Sherlock was pulling away and turning to John- then drew up short when he realized what he was about to do.

“I. Um. Thank you too. John.” Sherlock made to pat John’s arm, his hand fluttering over his sleeve, before dropping back to his side. “I. It was. Much appreciated.” He managed, the tips of his ears turning red. John smiled.

“You’re welcome, but I think it was all down to Mycroft.”

“Not entirely. You helped.” Mycroft said, which wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but John was still gratified by the admission. He supposed it didn’t matter who had done what in the end. Sherlock had what he wanted and was happy. That was all that mattered.

“I just wanted to make sure you got to ride in the procession.” John shrugged at Sherlock. “It wouldn’t be fun without you there.”

Red spread from the tips of Sherlock’s ears down into his cheeks and he darted his eyes away. “Yes. Well. Thank you, John.” He fidgeted with the cuffs of his sleeves, then extended his hand which John took, kissing the inner skin of his wrist. Sherlock’s blush deepened and he took his hand back, giving a short bow. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” John said, bowing, but the gesture was wasted because Sherlock was already halfway down the hall, walking quickly, and didn’t look back. John hoped he hadn’t said anything wrong- but when he looked to Mycroft and Captain Lestrade for clarification, he caught them giving each other meaningful looks, smirking in an obvious way.

John was abruptly fed up with them.

“Goodnight.” He gave the shortest bow he thought he could get away with and stalked off without waiting for a response, ready to go to bed and sleep for a few hours, determined not to think of Omegas (or one in particular) the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Now that they were alone, it wasn’t uncomfortable, but Mycroft was very aware of Gregory and his own proximity to the Alpha. He wished they weren’t in a public area, in a hallway where anyone could happen upon them, and were instead somewhere…private. His bedroom. Even a deserted room. Not even for the full night. An hour. Half an hour. Anything. Mycroft _needed_ -

Gregory suddenly heaved a sigh. Mycroft glanced at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Mycroft said and was rewarded with a smile, “but what about this time in particular?”

“I hope you’re right that it will only be two days ride to Eguisheim.”

“Why? You seemed very certain the other day that it would take a full three-“

“Well, now I’m hoping I’m wrong.” Gregory said. “Because if it takes longer than two days, and I have to go longer without spending time with you…I think I’ll go mad.”

“Oh.” Mycroft hadn’t expected him to say that, and he didn’t know what to say in return. So he didn’t respond and stared off down the hallway, letting the pleasure of what Gregory had said sink in.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Mycroft kept his eyes fixed down the hall. “Quite the contrary in fact because I feel the same way. These last two days have been torturous.”

This was met with silence, and Mycroft hoped he hadn’t said the wrong thing, read the situation incorrectly and revealed too much about how he felt and embarrassed both himself and Gregory-

But when he risked a glance at the Alpha, he knew he hadn’t read the situation wrong. He had to look away from the intensity of Gregory’s expression, his stomach twisting in desire.

“I need to go to bed.” He mumbled feebly, then huffed at the unintentional innuendo. He knew it wasn’t lost on Gregory either because he heard him moan softly and that made how Mycroft was feeling worse.

They were in public.

Mycroft took a step back.

“I should go.” He repeated, and Gregory nodded.

“Yeah.”

Mycroft vacillated, not wanting to leave, but there was nothing else to do. “Goodnight, Captain.”

“Goodnight, Your Highness.”

Mycroft took a few steps away, then turned, remembering a bit of advice from one of Those Books- which he’d hidden in a secret compartment in one of his trunks to take with him on the Tour- about increasing an Alpha’s ardor while separated. “I’ll be thinking of you tonight, Gregory.”

The words didn’t have the effect he’d wanted, the Alpha only staring at him blankly, but Mycroft rallied quickly.

“I’ll be thinking of you while I’m in- in bed.”

Gregory made a noise like Mycroft had punched him and moved closer but Mycroft skittered away. If Gregory touched him, Mycroft knew what would happen and as much as he desperately wanted that, they couldn’t…

“Mycroft…”

“We can’t. I have to leave.”

Gregory slumped in resignation, nodding. “Yeah. I know.”

“Two days.” Mycroft reminded him with a smile, feeling strangely powerful and aroused at the display of how much the Alpha wanted him.

“Two days.” Gregory repeated. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Gods, I fucking hope so in this case.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.”

“Goodnight, Your Highness…Mycroft…”

* * *

 

Later that night, Mycroft lay in bed, unable to sleep, and gave serious thought about sneaking down to the barracks to see Gregory. The idea was incredibly enticing. He could do it. It would take less than twenty minutes.

But…between his bedroom and Gregory’s were myriad hallways and passages which, at this time of night, should be deserted but would now be bustling with life as the servants readied everything for the departure in the morning. He would be seen. People would talk, wondering what Prince Mycroft was doing visiting his Captain at past one in the morning.

Mycroft huffed, struggling with his sheets, jerking them and flinging himself about until he was in a somewhat comfortable position, his bad mood in no way conducive to a good night’s sleep. Which was unfortunate. He needed to sleep. They were leaving very early, and would be traveling for the next two days. It would be wearying. Mycroft needed to have his wits about him.

He did not need to spend the entire night pining after his Alpha Captain like a silly Omega tween. But that was exactly what he was doing. He supposed, as he turned onto his side and pulled the covers up to his ears, that it didn’t help matters that he knew it would be two more days until he was able to be with Gregory again. Possibly, if things didn’t work out well at Eguisheim, an entire week. It felt like a lifetime.

Mycroft rolled onto his back, sighing up at the ceiling. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He could read…but the books he wanted to read were already packed and he squirmed when he thought of their contents, heat pooling low in his belly which he didn’t really feel the urge to satiate- no matter what he’d said to Gregory earlier.

He’d rather wait on Gregory to provide him satisfaction-

Which reminded him of the one thing which had lately nagged at him, skirting around the edges of his mind at random moments throughout the day.

His heat would take place while they were on the road.

Mycroft had originally planned to stay behind at their seventh destination, Conques, inventing such and such a reason for doing so, and then catch up to the Tour in a few days after his heat was over. There was a false floor in one of his trunks in which he’d hidden a few select toys in preparation, alongside Those Books, but since his relationship with Gregory had developed…would the Alpha be amenable to sharing his heat instead? Again?

Gregory hadn’t alluded to it, but since they were having sex together…wasn’t that a viable option? Not out of the ordinary for Mycroft to suggest?

He quelled at the idea of _actually_ suggesting such a thing to Gregory, despite the fact that he wanted it. Very, very much.

And it would be a perfect arrangement. No one would question Captain Lestrade remaining behind with him at Conques. He protected Mycroft at all times anyway. No suspicions would be raised.

Mycroft allowed himself to think about it…then moaned and gave in, slipping his hand beneath the covers and touching himself. He wasn’t sleeping anyway, and maybe this would relax him enough to at least doze before it was time to get ready…


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the royal procession, the citizens of Marseille were up and about before dawn.
> 
> Omega mates wrapped up sandwiches and other little refreshments for their family to snack on as they whiled away the hours before the royal procession, irritably snapping at children who were slow to get ready and exasperatedly calling to their Alpha for help. Last minute tasks were completed, harsh words were said, tears were shed, apologies were made, items were lost then found and then lost again in a confusing muddle that was typical of a family readying themselves for an outing. Finally, after double-checking that the doors were locked, families left their houses, tugging along sleepy children and burdened down with all the supplies they needed to spend a day sitting on the side of the street waiting for a glimpse of royalty.

The day of the royal procession, the citizens of Marseille were up and about before dawn.

In the cool, grey light, they washed their faces and combed their hair, ate breakfast and drank tea before putting on their best outfits and most comfortable pair of shoes. Omega mates wrapped up sandwiches and other little refreshments for their family to snack on as they whiled away the hours before the royal procession, irritably snapping at children who were slow to get ready and exasperatedly calling to their Alpha for help. Last minute tasks were completed, harsh words were said, tears were shed, apologies were made, items were lost then found and then lost again in a confusing muddle that was typical of a family readying themselves for an outing. Finally, after double-checking that the doors were locked, families left their houses, tugging along sleepy children and burdened down with all the supplies they needed to spend a day sitting on the side of the street waiting for a glimpse of royalty. An Alpha was occasionally seen carrying a smaller child asleep in their arms as everyone made their way to the main road. Everyone was in a good mood, the annoyed confusion of the morning preparations forgotten in the face of such pleasures that awaited, and when they saw their neighbors or friends, smiles were exchanged but no one called out, not wanting to do anything to break the peaceful silence of the city at dawn.

Walking until they found a place on the main road where they wanted to watch the royal procession, families settled in for a long wait. The procession wasn’t expected for hours but no one wanted to run the risk of missing it…or making do in a back row with an obstructed view.

As the sun rose and burned off the fog, the noise level in the city increased. People who had slept in made their way outside, adding to the burgeoning crowd as the sun climbed higher. Excitement was rife in the air. Vendors walked along the roads in their own procession of commerce, selling meats and pies, candy, ale and cheap wine, as well as banners and noise-makers, flowers and flashy paper crowns, flags, scarfs and fans, candles to be lit as blessings, long sparklers which every child begged their parents for, and rough hemp bags for those who had left home without one. The royal procession would be throwing out candies and little toys and gold coins as they passed and a good, strong bag was needed to hold all the treasures.

Hours passed.

The sun reached its zenith.

Picnic baskets were opened and lunch was consumed. Families shared with those around them and drank wine warmed from the sun as they watched the children play in the streets, bored with waiting-

Trumpets sounded in the distance.

An excited ripple went through the crowd. Everyone surged to their feet, laughing as they pushed and shoved their way forward, calling out to the children to get them out of the street and shouting to each other the news: the procession was on its way!

* * *

 

They were starting.

John gripped the reins of his horse, hands steady but damp in his gloves from nervous sweat. He felt as if he were going to throw up and was glad that he hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast that morning. He’d left Stamford at the table tucking into eggs and toast, the smell of food enough to provoke his gag reflex and he’d found somewhere else to be until the food was taken away.

Light sparkled, catching the corner of his eye, and he turned in his saddle to where Sherlock was mounted beside him, dazzling, and utterly radiant in the sunshine. He gave John an excited grin which John returned as best he could before turning away again. Adding to his nervousness over the procession, was the fact that he didn’t really feel comfortable looking at Sherlock. It was a very bizarre feeling.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was almost drowned out by the noise around them. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” And he was fine.

It was just.

It’d suddenly struck John, as Sherlock sidled his horse into position beside him earlier and the sight of him in his royal ensemble, his crown settled atop his head, took John’s breath away- that he’d be marrying the little boy. They were betrothed.

Sherlock was _his_.

The whole thing was suddenly real to John in a way that it hadn’t been since the day of their betrothal. Because this was all for them. Everything. The people assembled in the courtyard of the palace. The procession. The Tour. The expensive pomp and circumstance. John was being introduced to the people- to the entire country- as the future Alpha King…and Sherlock’s future mate.

John swallowed convulsively.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock asked. “It’s only you look like you’re about to throw up.”

John forced himself to laugh, but it came out as a slightly hysterical, high-pitched giggle and he quickly stopped. “No. No, I’m not going to throw up.”

Gods, please, he prayed, don’t let him throw up. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people- the servants and nobility which he needed the respect of. If he threw up, he’d lose the small amount of respect he’d gained in the last week and he’d never live it down.

Sherlock was staring at him and John knew he was worrying him with his behavior. He needed to pull himself together. He didn’t want to ruin the procession for Sherlock because John knew the little Omega was so excited about getting to ride in it. John took a deep breath and tried to give Sherlock what he hoped was a confident smile.

Gods-

John quickly looked away from him again, holding the reins of his horse so tightly his knuckles hurt. Sherlock was _gorgeous_ , fascinating John and drawing his eye, making him want to stare… and John was _not_ comfortable thinking that way about Sherlock. He was a little boy.

But there was no way around it: Sherlock looked like some sort of wild, fey-like creature, his dark curls in complete disarray and tangled around his crown which itself was extraordinarily elaborate, a far cry from the plain gold crown John wore. Sherlock’s crown was a silver circlet set with large, deep blue sapphires all around, each surrounded by a sunburst of diamonds that glittered like small suns when they caught the light. The sapphires perfectly matched the color of Sherlock’s eyes and Stamford had whispered to John- when he’d seen him gawking- that the crown had been made special for Sherlock, to perfectly compliment the beauty of the Omega Crown Prince. Sherlock wore it with ease, as if he weren’t wearing a crown that cost so much John had needed to sit down when Stamford told him how much had been spent on it.

And this was John’s life now: riding in processions as the acknowledged future Alpha King of Northumbria, one of the richest, most prosperous countries in the northern hemisphere (if not the world), beside an Omega child whom he had promised to marry and one day bond with, an Omega who was one of the most brilliant, funny, and admirable people John had ever met and he couldn’t stop staring at him because he was so beautiful and John was very afraid that he was…he was…

Fuck.

John fought with his rising panic. Everything was moving way too fast. He hadn’t gotten a say in any of it. Not a single thing. Not the betrothal, nor the terms of it. His move to Northumbria. The Tour. Even his godsdamn crown and what he was wearing had been decided for him and no one had asked what he wanted or preferred.

And he certainly hadn’t gotten a say in what he seemed to feel towards Sherlock and he honest-to-god didn’t understand it. He didn’t like that because Sherlock was a _child_ and-

Trumpets blared, startling John and his horse neighed, shifting, and he was forced to relax his grip on the reins to avoid disaster. There was a blur of movement as the procession surged forward, and he fell into step behind the Prince’s Guard, nudging his horse into a walk with Sherlock beside him.

All too soon, they were stepping out of the palace gates to thunderous applause. People lined the streets as far as John could see and even more were hanging out windows and piled on top of the roofs above them. John had never seen so many people gathered together in one place and they were all looking at him, pointing and shouting and crying out for his attention, calling his name and Sherlock’s and-

John sent up a prayer, thanking every fucking god who’d ever existed that he hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning.

* * *

 

The royal procession stretched for more than a mile, extravagant and sumptuous, a wonderful feast for the eyes and ears.

First were the musicians, personally selected by the Queen to lead the procession, and the players felt all the compliment of her acknowledgement. Dressed in their best, instruments shiny and perfectly tuned, they stepped out, loudly playing the traditional songs- selected especially to please the common people- seamlessly going from one to the next with barely a pause. Spontaneous dances broke out in the crowd, and children at the edges linked arms and spun round and round and round. Flowers were thrown at the musicians to show appreciation, and the musicians put their heart and soul into every note-

Next were the performers: the stilt-walkers towering above everyone and jugglers who manipulated everything from soft, round balls to fiery batons to sharp knives, causing the crowd to gasp and applaud at their antics. There were acrobats who hand-walked down the streets or flipped and spun and cartwheeled to everyone’s delight. They climbed each other like trees, in threes and fours, arranging their bodies in stunning displays. Strong Alphas carried two or three Omegas at once, balanced at their side or stood on top of their shoulders, grinning as they waved to the crowd-

There were open carriages pulled by beautiful horses with servants tossing out little bundles of flowers and coins to the crowd, winking and grinning and smiling, puffed up with pride at being seen by their relatives and friends so well-dressed, participating in the royal procession-

Another band moved through with loud music accompanied by troupes of professional dancers dressed in flashy costume, in deep silks and light chiffons which moved and flowed around them like water. Omegas danced barefoot down the street, tinkling bells circling their ankles and wrists, dressed in thin garments, and the people whooped and hollered appreciatively at them. Alphas eyed the display with obvious appreciation, while some of the older people glared in outrage, lips tightening with disapproval as they covered their charges eyes- but the young Alphas were still able to sneak a few peeks when their guardians were turned the other way.

Tambourines sounded. There were fire-breathers. Sword-swallowers. Everything was a miasma of sound and color and no matter where one looked, there was something amazing to feast their eyes on-

Large banners moved down the street, held erect by the most eminent of servants, displaying the coat of arms of each noble family they preceded. The members of nobility, dressed in their finest, nodded regally to the people, deigning to toss out little presents of money or flowers, smiling benevolently at their own generosity. Each family was cheered for, the crowd knowing if the cheer wasn’t loud enough, no presents would be tossed out, and so they flattered the nobility’s vanity, calling out blessings which the nobility took as their due-

Priests in their ceremonial robes strolled down the street, swinging their censers of incense, and priestesses bearing flowers and marks of their god, prayed over the people, their hands outstretched-

Flowers rained down from the upper windows of buildings, people leaning out to shout and draw attention to themselves, squealing in delight when presents were tossed back up to them. Those who could relaxed on their rooftops, having the good fortune to own a house on the main road and able to see the procession stretched out in all its extended glory while they drank bottles of wine in the relative privacy-

Fireworks boomed and cracked. Multi-colored confetti fluttered down like rain. People screamed and talked and laughed, adding to the racket. Hands clapped until they were sore- then clapped some more because letting up just wasn’t an option. Not when the excitement reached a fever pitch when, at long last, the military marching band was heard with the soldiers marching behind-

The soldiers were dressed to impress, their armor shining, boots polished, and wearing the Crown’s insignia on their chest. A feathered plume decorated their helmets and swords tapped at their sides as they marched in rows of five, each step in sync, with perfect precision-

Omegas swooned and sighed. Fantasized about being chosen by one of the handsome Alpha soldiers and courted. Kissed. Taken-

And the Alpha soldiers knew they were the object of Omega’s fantasies. They pulled their shoulders back, chests puffed out, and grinned out at the crowd. They sometimes singled out an attractive Omega and waved or blew a kiss, laughing when the Omega clapped a hand to their mouth in shy mortification. More than one guardian stepped closer to their Omega charge- or right in front of them- and glowered at the Alphas. But the Omega stood on tiptoes to see over their guardian’s shoulder, blowing a small kiss back in return, blushing at their own daring.

Royal blue banners, edged in cream-colored silk, paraded past, followed by the illustrious Prince’s Guard, the Alpha soldiers of which behaved with a bit more decorum…but the thrill of the procession went to their heads and they flirted just as shamelessly as the common foot soliders had done-

And then there they were: the royal family.

A big cry went up from the people. The hullabaloo increased. There was a commotion in the crowds as they surged forward because everyone wanted to see the Scottish Alpha with their own eyes. They’d heard rumors about him all week but no one had seen him yet and they were curious, wanting to know what their future King looked like-

And _oh_ , but he was _handsome_.

Young. Blonde. A bit rugged but that was to be expected because he was Scottish. They were rough people, everyone knew that. He was dressed rather plainly compared to everyone else. Not badly but it was clear that not as much money had been spent on his ceremonial clothes- a fact which would be remarked on later and conclusions drawn- but most people only glanced at him because their eyes were arrested by the person beside him.

_The Omega Crown Prince._

Everyone gasped in amazement and stared, dumbfounded. They pointed at the unexpected sight and nudged each other, words utterly failing them because not many had ever actually seen him. The Crown Prince was kept secluded up at the Palace, as a proper high-born Omega should be, and even in past processions he’d ridden in a closed carriage. To see him now was an unexpected treat and when the initial shock wore off, the people went _wild_.

The Omega Crown Prince was so pretty. Tiny and small. Dressed in deep blue, the color of the Royal Family, the darkness of his curls in direct contrast to his pale skin. He was incredibly slight. The most delicate little Omega possible- with such a sweet smile. He rode close beside the Alpha Prince who didn’t let him out of his reach, sometimes even reaching for his reins and tugging him closer, and more than one Omega sighed at the obvious display of possessiveness, a sure sign the Alpha was already in love with the little Omega.

The royal family threw out gifts to the crowd. More flowers- roses (rumored from the Queen’s own garden) and yellow daffodils, bright pink peonies and purple irises. Gold coins. Small bags filled with sweetmeats for the children. Rolls of dark blue silk strips which were caught and tied to a wrist or around one’s neck, a pretty ornament to show allegiance to the royal family. Later, the silk strips would be sewn into a collar or cuff or a baby blanket to preserve the fine memento.

People jockeyed to grab anything the Crown Prince threw, wanting something his hands had actually touched, and they scented at the trinkets, trying their best to pick up the lingering scent and swearing they could still smell him and that he smelled divine.

The Alphas in the crowd envied the Scottish Alpha, commenting on how lucky he was to have such a pretty little Omega as a mate. They were impressed at his protectiveness which was needed, they said, for such a fragile Omega. A few of the Alphas muttered crude sexual remarks, licking their lips and posturing as the Crown Prince passed by, their thoughts base and not worth mentioning-

The Beta Prince was next in the procession, his Alpha Captain riding at his side, and he was clapped for politely, but everyone was still fixed on the Crown Prince and his Alpha, craning their necks for one last look before they disappeared from sight-

When the retinue had finally passed, the tail end of the procession tapering off, the people dispersed. The pubs were open and would remain open until morning. There were numerous parties, both public and private, being held all over the city. Brothels were ready to do a big business, salacious entertainments planned, and the Omega prostitutes had snuck away from the procession early to get themselves ready for their Alpha patrons. All throughout the city, there would be music and dancing, food and fun, from now until dawn. Such pleasures for everyone to partake of…and more than one Omega, after seeing the Alpha soldiers blowing kisses and the Crown Prince and his Alpha together, watching them smile and wave, clearly in love with each other, craved their own romance.

So while their guardian was distracted, they slipped away, melting into the crowds, knowing that however much trouble they got in later would be worth whatever delights awaited them the next few hours.

* * *

 

It was hours before the procession reached the gates of Marseille, then another hour or more until it made it to the outskirts of the city. There were still people lining the roads, although not as many as in the city proper, and as the procession traveled on the crowds slowly thinned…thinned…thinned…until there was no one left and the procession was on its own on the road.

John breathed a huge sigh of relief. His nerves were shot to hell. He’d always hated being the center of attention, an odd trait for a prince, but he’d never gotten used to it because his father had rarely bothered summoning him to court when he was a child- maybe once or twice every few years. Being the center of attention wasn’t what John had grown up with and doing so now all the time was a steep learning curve he was struggling with.

It didn’t help matters, John thought, his eyes sliding to the side, that he felt so ridiculous when compared to Sherlock who handled the attention and the crowds so effortlessly. He’d been doing it all his life and was glowing after the procession.

Sherlock caught John looking at him and grinned, giggling, jittery as he came down from the excitement of the procession. “That was incredible! I can’t believe it was like that. I never would have imagined because I’ve never been allowed before.”

“Yeah.” John tried to sound happy. “That was really something.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said solemnly, but his voice still vibrated with eagerness. “I wouldn’t have been allowed to do that if it weren’t for you asking Mummy. So thank you. I really, really enjoyed it.”

Well at least one of them had, John thought bitterly- then immediately felt bad. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that John was feeling prickly and awkward, and he shook himself, trying to get rid of his bad mood.

“You’re welcome, Sherlock.” John rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension he’d been carrying the last few hours, but his body refused to settle. He shook his arms out, first one and then the other, popping his elbows and rotating his wrists, trying to work off the excess energy. The calm pace of the procession was terrible. He wanted exertion, straining his muscles and he almost moaned with how wonderful that sounded.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, watching him, and John nodded.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Sherlock sounded skeptical and John chuckled ruefully.

“I just can’t stand this.” He said, staring straight ahead and doing his best not to appear embarrassed. “The procession. It’s made me on edge. And this isn’t…I have to do something.”

“What do you mean do something?”

“Something. Anything. I’ll go crazy if I have to keep this up.” He waved his hand at the procession, the long line of people and carriages in front of them moving so fucking slowly it felt as if they weren’t moving at all. “I need to move.” He said, and he expected Sherlock to contradict him and say they were already moving-

Sherlock bounced in his saddle, eyes sparkling. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

* * *

 

People screamed as they thundered past them down the road, racing their horses ahead of everyone, dodging around carriages, and shouting to each other at the top of their lungs. It was exhilarating. John spurred his horse faster, wind whipping against his face and causing his eyes to smart and tear up. The sun beat down on them, warm, and the horse surged beneath him. John let out an excited whoop, and heard Sherlock laugh, high and wild, behind him.

He heard Mycroft yell, his posh voice carrying above the din, no doubt telling them to stop, but they both pretended not to hear, dashing ahead of the procession-

Then were suddenly by themselves, the open road ahead, clear of any and all obstructions, and John leaned down, urging his horse even faster, adrenaline coursing through him. His cloak whipped behind him, flapping in the wind. He could hear Sherlock behind him. John spared a brief thought about their clothes, about Sherlock’s crown slipping off and bouncing to the dust- damaging jewels which cost more than what most people made in a lifetime- but the thrill and wildness of their escape wiped away all his concerns.

He knew they couldn’t keep up the pace for long. The horses would tire soon. John didn’t know the road, or the hazards they could meet. But for now, with just himself and Sherlock against everyone else, John savored the short time he had and left everything- all his worries and thoughts- behind in the dust.

* * *

 

Sherlock was exhausted by the time they reached the inn at which they would be spending the night. He drooped in the saddle, all the excitement of the day entirely worn off. After six hours spent on the road, most of that spent on the back of his horse with only small breaks to rest the horses, he was shattered.

And his legs were in _agony_.

He wasn’t used to riding on horseback for long distances and the muscles in his legs which were spread over the back of the horse felt strained. The skin of his inner thighs also felt rubbed raw and, the worst part, unnervingly _wet_. Sherlock didn’t think he was bleeding, but he couldn’t tell in the dark and he didn’t want to say anything to draw attention to himself. Because this was his own fault: once they’d left Marseille, Mycroft had dismounted and ridden in the carriage, sending word for Sherlock to do the same, but Sherlock had ignored his brother, thinking he could handle the distance. He’d been wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Sherlock pouted, feeling very put out at the unfairness of the situation. He’d just wanted to ride beside John, he thought miserably, trying to hold himself as still as possible as they entered the courtyard of the inn, but he was jostled with every movement of his horse. It was all he could do to keep from whimpering.

He swayed in the saddle, watching Mycroft issue orders and direct people, getting everything settled for the night. Mycroft had a hurried conversation with Captain Lestrade before Lestrade walked away, shouting at his soldiers and telling them where to put the horses and all their gear. Sherlock and Mycroft and John- and the Prince’s Guard- were all staying at the inn while the more eminent of the nobility were staying in town, in the villager’s homes and dwellings which had been opened in compulsory hospitality. All the rest of the Tour were camped in an open field on the outskirts of the village, sleeping in tents.

Not that any of that mattered to Sherlock. Sleeping accommodations weren’t important. He was too busy fretting about how he was going to get off his horse without causing a scene, and he bit his lip as he watched John slide from the back of his horse with ease.

“Sherlock?” John looked at him, expectant, and Sherlock steeled himself, firmly deciding that he didn’t really feel as bad as he thought he did, and that everything was fine and that even if it wasn’t he wouldn’t let anyone know he was in pain. Thus resolved, he made to dismount-

He gasped before he could stop himself and froze. Everything below his waist throbbed. He couldn’t move, completely immobilized by the pain. And his his heart dropped over what he’d seen: his trousers stuck to his thighs in patches with blood.

“Sherlock?” John was suddenly there, peering up at him with concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t want to tell John what was wrong. For some reason, it was very embarrassing. Maybe because he’d been so stupid, insisting on riding on horseback and not in the carriage. Or maybe because his thighs hurt yes, but even his _arse_ hurt.

“What’s wrong?”

“NothingImfine.” Sherlock said, voice squeezed down into a pained whisper. He wanted to cry. He wished he hadn’t been so stubborn. He tried again to swing his leg over the back of the horse but only managed to move it a few inches before he stopped, face crumpling.

John reached up for him in alarm. “Sherlock-“

“You’ve been inexcusably careless with your lovely betrothed, John.”

Sherlock looked over John’s head to where the Duke of Lennox stood, illuminated by the blazing torches in the courtyard of the inn. He gave Sherlock a friendly smile, his eyes sympathetic as he took in his rigid posture.

“You should have known better than to let him ride all day as you’ve done, John.” He said. “Look at the poor thing- he’s in pain.”

John turned to Sherlock. “What? Are you?”

Sherlock blushed and wished the Duke of Lennox had kept his mouth shut. “Just a bit.”

“But.” John sounded very put out. Sherlock felt even more miserable. He hadn’t wanted to make John angry with him. “But I thought you said that you could ride-“

“I can!”

“Then why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?” He demanded, and Lennox tsked with disapproval.

“Now’s not the time for reprimanding him.” He frowned at his nephew. “Can’t you tell the poor thing’s already in enough distress?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell Lennox to stop calling him a ‘poor thing’-

“You’ve already been remiss in your duties today towards him. You should be taking care of him now, like a proper Alpha, instead of upbraiding him.”

“John _is_ a proper Alpha.” Sherlock snapped, no longer caring what Lennox called him so long as the Alpha wasn’t insulting John. “This wasn’t his fault. I can ride on horseback just fine. I’ve never ridden so far before, though, and John had no way of knowing that.”

“A _proper_ Alpha- one who had your best interests at heart instead of his _own_ selfish concerns- should’ve asked. They should’ve been more solicitous and checked on you, taken care of you, and not allowed this to happen.”

“But John didn’t- he’s always-“

“He’s got blood on his trousers.” Lennox said to John, talking over Sherlock. “How did you fail to notice that?”

John looked to where Lennox pointed, clenching his jaw. “I don’t know, sir.” He muttered, allowing Lennox to shoo him away from Sherlock’s horse.

“You’ve got a lot to learn if you want to take care of an Omega like the Crown Prince correctly. You need to stop thinking of yourself and your own enjoyments and look after him. It’s your duty and what’s expected of you.” Lennox finished, shaking his head, then turned his full attention to Sherlock, smiling in a consoling manner. “I’m sorry for my nephew’s inattentiveness, Your Highness.”

“This wasn’t John’s fault. It wasn’t. It was mine.” Sherlock was so angry that he was almost in tears. Lennox had no right to speak to John like that. “I knew that I needed to ride in the carriage but I didn’t want to because John and I were having so much fun. It wasn’t John’s fault.”

“I understand that you didn’t want to ride in the carriage, Your Highness- but that is precisely why John should have intervened. And,” He added when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, “that is not to disparage your intellect. You are obviously intelligent. I’ve personally seen proof of that. But a good Alpha,” He stressed, “would have realized what was happening, and your reasoning for it, and dismounted so he could ride with you in the carriage. That is what true attentiveness is.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. What Lennox said was true: that was precisely why he hadn’t wanted to say anything about his pain. He’d been enjoying John’s company too much and he’d thought that if he dismounted, John would carry on riding without him and Sherlock would have to spend the rest of the day without him.

But even so. That didn’t mean John…this wasn’t his fault…Sherlock had known his limits and he’d still behaved so stupidly…that didn’t mean John had been inattentive…

“Your loyalty to my nephew is very admirable.” Lennox murmured kindly. “Your wanting to spend time with him is commendable, and an excellent trait for an Omega to possess. You’re strong- and very bright- and I must admit that I admire you, Your Highness. Sherlock.” He corrected, smile widening but it wasn’t mocking. It was understanding and nice, and made Sherlock even more confused. “I think you are a truly estimable Omega in so many ways and what happened today was unfortunate, but there’s no reason for you to be ashamed. It wasn’t your fault. My nephew needs to fully appreciate you and not abuse your loyalty. Now.” Lennox clapped his hands. “May I?”

Sherlock blinked, trying to work everything out but he was overwhelmed and tired. “May you… _what_?”

“May I offer you the assistance you clearly need, that my nephew has neglected?”

“Oh. I…I…” Sherlock looked to John for guidance but the Alpha was staring at the ground and didn’t even notice him. “I suppose you may…?”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” Lennox bowed then reached up and carefully lifted Sherlock off his horse, being vigilant not to jar him too much, but Sherlock still whined as he moved. He disconcertingly sailed through the air, and he expected Lennox to set him on the ground. He was already braced for the flare of pain from his abused muscles when he took his own weight…but he instead came to rest against Lennox’s chest, cradled in his arms.

Captain Lestrade was suddenly there, face dark as he glared at the Duke, and his hand was heavy on Sherlock’s shoulder as if he were about to forcibly remove him from Lennox’s grasp. “What do you think you’re doing, Your Grace?” He demanded, jaw clenched in anger.

“The Crown Prince needed assistance dismounting. And I naturally volunteered my services.”

“ _Naturally_.” Lestrade repeated drily. “But that was not necessary. I could have assisted him.”

“While that may be, unfortunately, you were busy assisting the Prince. After all, we both know how _devoted_ you are to him.”

“You may put the Crown Prince down.” Captain Lestrade said. It wasn’t a request.

Lennox cocked an eyebrow and didn’t relinquish Sherlock. “I’m afraid that would cause the Crown Prince unnecessary pain. He’s already been through quite a lot today and I don’t believe his legs would support him long enough to make his way upstairs.”

“Sherlock?” Captain Lestrade asked, and Sherlock, even though he hated to admit it, said shamefacedly-

“I…may need some assistance.”

“Alright. I will carry you.” His voice brooked no opposition and Lennox conceded, gently transferring Sherlock to Captain Lestrade’s arms.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sherlock murmured, humiliated over the whole ordeal and all the attention which had been drawn to him because of it. Lennox took his hand, bowing over it, and Sherlock felt Greg tense, his arms tightening around Sherlock as if to keep him from Lennox, but he didn’t step away.

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Please do not hesitate to ask if you ever require assistance with something my nephew is unable to perform.” He bowed over Sherlock’s hand again, then strode away through the crowd and into the inn.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked and Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock scowled up at him. “I said I was.”

“Alright. Fine…but don’t ever let that bastar- man touch you again.”

“He was only trying to help.” Sherlock didn’t want to argue, but he felt like he had to explain why he’d let the Duke help him- and he didn’t know why. Lennox was John’s uncle. Technically, they were related by way of the marriage contract. It was proper for Lennox to help him. Wasn’t it?

Greg snorted, but apparently didn’t want to argue either because he didn’t press the issue. He turned with Sherlock in his arms, moving toward the inn.

“Wait!” Sherlock twisted in Greg’s arms so he could see John where he was still standing beside Sherlock’s horse, staring at the ground. “John?” He waited until the Alpha raised his eyes to meet his, then extended his hand for John to scent at his wrist, smiling shyly.

Ever since the sword fighting incident and John’s apology, Sherlock had offered his wrist for John to scent each time they saw each other as a greeting, and then each night before they parted as a goodbye. So far, he hadn’t missed a single day and Sherlock would never admit it, but those two moments were usually the highlights of his day. John always responded with a smile that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat while he scented at Sherlock’s wrist-

Only this time…he hesitated. For a split second, Sherlock had the horrible feeling that John would reject him- but then John sighed and took his hand, gingerly kissing the skin of his wrist.

“I’m very sorry about today, Sherlock.”

“There’s no reason for you to be sorry, John.” Sherlock said staunchly, wanting to say more but very aware of Greg listening to them. “I shouldn’t have been so stubborn.”

John shook his head, looking away from Sherlock and dropping his hand. “I should have known.”

“You can’t read minds.” Sherlock scoffed, trying to make John feel better, but he didn’t even smile. Sherlock felt horrible. He wished he’d never wanted to ride his horse in the stupid royal procession in the first place. “I enjoyed our time together, John.” He offered bashfully, glancing up at Greg who was staring up at the sky, a long-suffering expression on his face.

“I did too, Sherlock.” John responded, but his compliment was lackluster and fell flat, and Sherlock wanted to stay and make things better, talk John out of his bad mood…but he didn’t have a say in the matter as Greg nodded to John and then bore Sherlock off and into the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at these awkward babies :)


	4. Chapter 3

Greg deposited Sherlock on the bed and then kept his back turned as Mrs. Hudson clucked over the little boy and stripped him out of his stained trousers while Mycroft raged at the lot of them.

“What in the gods’ names were you thinking, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice whipped through the room like a sharp lash, and even though it wasn’t directed at him, Greg flinched at the harsh derision. “Cavorting about the countryside all day long when you knew very well you couldn’t ride for that long! I’ve never known you to do something so monumentally foolish- and that is saying quite a bit.” He finished snidely, and Sherlock hissed at him- then yelped in pain, causing Greg to jump, when Mrs. Hudson began working his trousers down his thighs which accidentally pulled at the raw places to which the fabric had stuck.

“Stop doing that!” Mycroft ordered. “You’re hurting him-“

“I’m only taking his trousers down-“

“You’re being too rough! Don’t do it that way! Do it properly-”

“Well, I never! In all my days, I’ve never been told that I’m taking a man’s trousers down the wrong way!”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

Even with his back turned, Greg could hear the blush in Mycroft’s tone. He bit back a fond smile.

“I know what I’m doing, _Your Highness_.” She said, a hint of derision demarcating Mycroft’s title. Mrs. Hudson never liked being questioned when it came to her care of Sherlock, and Greg knew her wit could be just as biting as Mycroft’s when provoked. “I’ve raised two sons of my own, and taken care of Sherlock from the moment he was born. While you may not think me qualified when compared to your own vast knowledge of child care and medical expertise, I would never do anything to deliberately cause Sherlock pain.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft blustered. “I didn’t mean to insinuate-“

“Those trousers must come off one way or another. He cannot wear them the rest of the night. His wounds need to be cleaned so infection doesn’t set in. And I’m sorry, dear, really I am…but unless you want to start cutting at them with a pair of shears- and risk nicking him in the process- there’s no other way to remove them than just…getting on with it.”

“Very well. I trust you. Of course I do.” Mycroft muttered, cowed by the little Omega nanny. They all knew that she was right: Sherlock’s trousers had to come off and the only way to do that was to, well, take them off.

“Brace yourself, love.” Mrs. Hudson commanded. Greg heard Sherlock take a sharp breath and the mattress creaked alarmingly as Mycroft sank down onto it beside Sherlock.

“Are you alright, Locky?”

“Yes.”

“Are you truly?”

“M’fine.”

“I hate this. I hate that you’re in pain. I really do…but none of this would be happening if you’d just listened to me. I told you to dismount earlier this morning and ride with me and father in the carriage…but _no_ …you insisted on riding with John. You knew better, and I think it’s very obvious that mooning over John Watson has severely impaired your intellect-“

“I haven’t been mooning over John!” Sherlock cried in outrage. Mycroft snorted.

“Yes, you have!”

_“I. Have. Not!”_

“Then what do you call it?” He demanded, the mattress squeaking again as he got up and began agitatedly pacing the small room. Greg could feel his presence at his back like a small thunderstorm, anger crackling like lightning. “What do you call it when you forego common sense to go chasing after a self-centered Alpha who clearly didn’t have your best interests in mind? Otherwise, he never would have let you continue-“

“This wasn’t John’s fault!”

“You’re right. This wasn’t John’s fault.” Mycroft conceded, and he sounded so calm and indulgent…but Greg braced himself. He knew, from years of witnessing the two brothers fight, what was coming. “It was yours.”

And there it was.

“This was _your_ fault, Sherlock, because you knew better than to act in the stupidly maudlin way you did today.” Mycroft was relentless, his words dropping like hailstones, stinging where they landed. “And for what? To spend more time with John? Putting yourself in harm’s way in a pitiful attempt to get his attention?” He made it sound so pathetic. Greg winced in sympathy, feeling a wave of secondhand embarrassment for Sherlock.

He desperately wished Mycroft would dismiss him so he could leave and not have to witness this. But Greg couldn’t leave unless he was given permission and it seemed like Mycroft had forgotten he was in the room. All his focus was on Sherlock- which meant that Greg would probably be here for a while longer.

He resigned himself to suffering along with the little Omega, shifting on his feet and falling into parade rest. Behind him, Sherlock was totally silent and Greg wanted to check on him to see how he was holding up under Mycroft’s scolding. He had a suspicion Sherlock was upset because usually when the two brothers fought, Sherlock gave as good as he got, snapping at Mycroft and spewing invective and insults hot enough to scald. That spirit was currently lacking in an obvious way. Greg hated that.

He hoped Sherlock wasn’t crying.

The thought paralyzed Greg. He’d never done well around Sherlock’s tears. Maybe it was because Sherlock was an Omega and seeing him in distress caused Greg’s Alpha instinct to protect to come out…but Greg thought it had more to do with the fact that he liked Sherlock and hated seeing him upset. For any reason. It made Greg want to fix whatever was wrong, stop Sherlock crying, and make him happy again.

Greg really, really hoped the little boy wasn’t crying.

Mycroft shouldn’t be so mean to Sherlock, Greg thought, and then instantly felt bad for thinking that way because Mycroft would never intentionally be cruel to Sherlock. He loved his little brother too much to ever do that. It’d been a foolhardy thing Sherlock had done today, and he’d gotten himself hurt and now Mycroft was worried and upset over it. Greg knew Mycroft hated seeing Sherlock in pain just as much as he himself did…if not more. If Mycroft were being rather mean, it came from a place of worry and was backed with a desire to impress upon Sherlock the severity of what he’d done and teach him not to do it again in future.

But now Sherlock was even more upset than he’d already been. It was a bad situation all around. No one had asked for Greg’s opinion, but…

Greg agreed with Mycroft that what Sherlock had done was very silly- in the extreme- but the little boy had only wanted to spend time with the Alpha he was betrothed to (and with whom it was painfully obvious, at least to Greg, he had a crush on). While, no, it shouldn’t have happened, it’d been innocently done. Rather sweet, actually, when one thought about it. And Sherlock was a little boy, Greg conceded. That meant he shouldn’t be expected to always make the right decisions-

Greg winced at the sound of shifting fabric, accompanied by Sherlock’s small, pained whimper.

John should have taken better care of him.

“John shouldn’t have allowed this to happen.” Mrs. Hudson unconsciously echoed Greg’s thoughts, and her hushed voice was so appalled that Greg wanted to look and see how bad the damage was even though he knew that Sherlock would be fine. It was only a little chafing from riding too long. Anyone who’d learned to ride a horse had experienced the same. Greg still wanted to check for himself that Sherlock was alright. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he did.

“Should I go and get a doctor?” Mycroft sounded worried and Greg half-turned without making the decision to do so, a wave of protective instinct flooding his system at the sound of his Omega in distress-

Not _his_ Omega. Not his.

Fuck.

Greg forced himself to turn back around. He stoically faced the wooden door and widened his stance, keeping his hands clasped behind his back, and wished that Mycroft would just fucking dismiss him already. His muscles continued to jump, instinct warring with reason because he wanted to go to Mycroft. Make sure he was alright. Take care of him. Fix whatever was making him sound so upset.

He didn’t.

Greg stayed where he was, feeling miserable and helpless. Useless.

Mycroft was not his. He was not Greg’s Omega. He would probably not take kindly to Greg interfering while he dealt with Sherlock.

“I don’t want a doctor!” Sherlock objected, but Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft ignored him.

“It may be a good idea, dear.” Mrs. Hudson said. “I think he’ll be fine, but I worry about infection. Especially since we’ll be traveling tomorrow. All that dust...”

“I think there’s one downstairs. If not, I’m sure we can find one in the camp. I’ll send Captain Lestrade-”

“No! I don’t want a doctor!”

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft. Please.” Sherlock sniffed and his voice wavered in an alarming way. “I don’t want a doctor. I just w-want to go to b- bed.”

“You can’t go to bed until we clean the places on your legs. And I want someone to look at them. It’d make me feel better.”

That statement had a powerful effect on Greg. He wanted to be the one who made Mycroft feel better. He’d fight anyone else who even tried-

Gods, what a stupidly pathetic impulse. Greg took a deep breath. He needed to leave the room. Please, gods, let Mycroft dismiss him soon, otherwise Greg didn’t know what he’d end up doing. Probably something completely idiotic and embarrassing that he’d never be able to live down. Like pull Mycroft to him so he could scent and kiss him…

Greg shuddered. He needed to calm the fuck down.

Now.

He knew the only reason he was feeling so strongly toward Mycroft anyway was because this was the closest he’d been to the Omega in days.

Four days. Ninety-six hours. A godsdamned lifetime.

Greg didn’t want to be dramatic, but he felt as if he’d died a thousand deaths every hour of every day since he’d been separated from Mycroft.

The worst part was that Mycroft seemed totally unaffected by their separation. He was fine. He remained cool and distant, demeanor closed-off, giving no hint as to what he felt toward Greg beyond a mild disinterest. A few times, Greg had even wondered if he’d imagined his relationship with Mycroft. With the yawning distance between them, the cool reserve, it didn’t seem possible that he’d actually been allowed to touch Mycroft and kiss him, receiving Mycroft’s sweet, hesitant kiss in return and hearing him gasp while Greg scented at him, pressed so close, melding their bodies together in more ways than one.

A lump rose up in Greg’s throat at the memory and a sick swipe of pure longing almost took him to his knees. If it hadn’t been for those last few moments they’d had together, and the way Mycroft had been in tears, clinging to Greg and not wanting to leave…Greg would’ve thought he was crazy and just imagined everything.

Mycroft was so close right now. Literal feet away. Gods, what Greg wouldn’t give to scent Mycroft again. Just for a minute. It was awful being in the same room with him and not being able to smell him because of the sodding wax patches he always wore to cover his scent glands. Greg’s eyes glazed over and he fantasized about peeling away the wax patches and burying his nose at the base of Mycroft’s throat. Inhaling. Tasting.

All the breath punched from his lungs as he remembered the beautiful way Mycroft would tip his head back so Greg could scent him better, moaning with pleasure. Greg quivered- and made an effort to get control of himself. It would be all kinds of not good for him to smell aroused while he was in the room with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

He thought about how much trouble he’d be in if he just walked out of the room.

“You can’t go to bed until someone looks at your legs.” Mycroft argued, but Mrs. Hudson tsked in disagreement, surprising them all.

“Maybe it could wait until the morning, Mycroft. Just look at the poor thing. He’s exhausted from riding all day-“

Which was the wrong thing to say.

“Of course he’s exhausted from riding all day.” Mycroft snapped back. “That’s the whole point of this farce. He was barely clinging to the back of his horse by the time we arrived at the inn, and if it weren’t for Captain Lestrade he’d probably still be out there because gods know he couldn’t have made it inside on his own. He’s injured. He needs someone to look at him-“

“I don’t want a doctor.” Sherlock begged, and this time it was obvious that he was crying. Greg’s heart broke. “I don’t want more of a fuss being made. Mycroft. Please.”

“Sherlock.”

“Please!”

Mycroft sighed, and everyone waited for his decision. Greg was poised, ready to leave.

“Captain Lestrade?”

Fuck.

Greg worked to keep his voice as even as possible so no one would guess everything that had been on his mind in the last few minutes. “Your Highness?”

“If you would be amenable…would you please look at Sherlock’s injuries and give us your opinion as to whether or not we should send for a doctor?”

The request was surprising. Greg didn’t mind, but Sherlock was still an overprotected Omega and so he had to ask- “Are you sure that’s…acceptable?”

“Yes. Sherlock would prefer it. Please.”

Greg turned and knelt next to the bed where Sherlock was sat on the edge with Mrs. Hudson in just his tunic and pants. Mycroft hovered over both of them with his arms crossed, looking murderous. Greg disregarded the both of them and looked to Sherlock.

“May I?” He asked, indicating Sherlock’s legs, and Sherlock nodded, his lip wobbling too much for him to actually say anything. He looked tried and wan, tears decorating his pale cheeks, and Greg brusquely wiped them away with the back of his knuckles before asking again. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, looking somewhat pleased when Mycroft made a sound of disgust. Greg smiled.

“Alright.”

Greg looked down. It wasn’t nearly as bad as everyone was acting. Greg hadn’t thought it would be. It’d been years since he learned how to ride on horseback, but he remembered how his legs had chafed until he’d learned to dress properly and built up his stamina. The white, soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thighs were red and rubbed raw. The skin was broken in a few areas and oozing with little dots of blood. Greg thought it probably looked a lot worse than it was, and when he asked for warmed water and a cloth and gently sponged away most of the dried blood, he was proved right.

Sherlock flinched and whimpered the entire time, and Greg murmured apologies, hating the sound of it. He did his best not to hurt Sherlock further, but the raw places needed to be cleaned so they wouldn’t get infected and he kept at it, murmuring nonstop under his breath the entire time.

“There.” Greg finally said, tossing the stained rag back into the bowl and giving Sherlock an encouraging smile. It felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders now that he was all done. “Not so bad after all. See? No reason for all this fuss, and you’ll be fine in another few days. I’ve had lots worse.”

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles, trying to hide that he was still crying and not doing a good job of it, but Greg pretended not to notice. “Y-you?”

“Of course. Anyone who’s ever learned to ride a horse has gone through this. You’re not all that special.” He teased, and got a feeble smile in return before Sherlock shot a watery, resentful look at his brother.

“Even Mycroft?”

“Of course not. Mycroft’s never ridden a horse for that long together in his entire life.”

Sherlock gave a choked laugh and while Greg worried what sort of retribution from Mycroft he’d get in return for that comment, he was glad that he’d made Sherlock feel a little better.

“You don’t think he needs a doctor, Captain?” Mrs. Hudson asked, taking away the pink water and ruined cloth to be disposed of, but Sherlock interrupted before Greg could even open his mouth.

“I don’t want a doctor. I don’t want John hearing that I had to be seen by a doctor because I was so _stupid_.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft started, but Greg beat him to it.

“You weren’t stupid. You rode a horse. More than half the people in the procession were riding horses.”

“But I knew…like Mycroft said…I _knew_ that I couldn’t…that I wasn’t…”

“You made a _mistake_.” Greg asserted, and he could feel Mycroft at his back and seriously hoped he wasn’t offending him. “But that’s all it was: a mistake. You weren’t being stupid.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled at Greg’s kindness. “I just…I just wanted to…John was telling me stories about Scotland.” He warbled. “And I didn’t want to…to…”

“You wanted to spend time with John. There was nothing wrong with that. It was unwise the way you went about doing it…but it wasn’t stupid. John should’ve taken better care of you today.”

“I don’t need John to take care of me.” Sherlock objected, but that was one statement Greg couldn’t agree with.

“John was there with you today, and so he should have thought about your inexperience on horseback and not let you carry on riding with him, even if you were both enjoying yourselves. Especially if you were both enjoying yourselves.” Greg corrected. “The fact that he didn’t do anything was selfish. It ended up causing you pain and you got injured. He should’ve looked out for you better than he did.”

“Is that what Lennox meant by saying that John wasn’t a proper Alpha?” Sherlock asked, and Greg hated agreeing with the Duke of Lennox about anything. It physically hurt something inside him to say-

“Yes. That’s what he meant. John isn’t just any Alpha…he’s your Alpha. The two of you are betrothed, and he needs to act like it in the future and make sure no harm comes to you.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, wiping his nose with the back of his hand again, before cutting his eyes at Greg. They were swollen and red, so the effect was rather ruined, but Greg felt pinned all the same.

“Are _you_ a proper Alpha?” He asked, and the question sent Greg reeling. Where the hell did that question even come from? Greg flailed, not knowing what to say. He didn’t think he was a bad Alpha. He wasn’t the best either.

“I…I hope I am.” He finally managed to say. “I mean. I try to be.” He shrugged, clearing his throat and feeling incredibly awkward when he realized that Sherlock was aware of his relationship with Mycroft, and that was probably the motivation behind that particular question. “I always do my best to be a good Alpha.”

“Mm.” Sherlock regarded him a while longer, and just as the moment grew so awkward that Greg thought about just leaving, he blinked and looked away. “How long until I can ride again?”

“Um.” When he was learning to ride, Greg had waited a full day before climbing back into the saddle, but this wasn’t training, and this was Sherlock. “Give it a full week. Even if you’re better before then.” He held up a hand when Sherlock started to argue. “Give yourself time to heal properly and then you can try it again.”

“Alright.” Sherlock sniffed and Greg took that as permission to stand, dusting the knees of his trousers off and avoiding everyone’s eyes. “Thank you, Lestrade.”

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Captain. Goodnight.” Mycroft didn’t even look at him as he was dismissed, and Greg felt the full impact of the rejection. He bowed, silently begging Mycroft to look at him. Just a glance. Something.

There was nothing.

“Goodnight, Your Highness.”

* * *

 

“Captain Lestrade.”

It was embarrassing the way Mycroft’s heart sped up when, at the sound of his voice, Gregory turned at the end of the narrow hallway and their eyes connected. He tried to keep his features blank so he at least wouldn’t look so obviously pathetic. It was bad enough that he'd left Sherlock with Mrs. Hudson just so he could hurry after the Alpha.

“Your Highness?”

Not that there was anyone to witness the display besides himself and Gregory in the deserted upper hallway of the inn. But still. It was the principle of the thing. Mycroft nervously licked his lips, trying to remember what he’d planned to say, and thought he saw Gregory’s eyes dart down to take in the action.

“I. Uh. Th-thank you for your assistance. With Sherlock. It was greatly appreciated.”

“I was happy to help, Your Highness.”

They were so close together. And practically alone- or as alone as they could hope to be at the moment. The upper rooms were reserved for Sherlock and Mycroft and their servants, with everyone else staying downstairs or in the field on the outskirts of the village. Laughter and raised voices, supplemented by raucous piano music, disjointed singing, and the clink of cutlery and glass mugs filtered up the stairs and reminded Mycroft in the rudest way possible that they were very much not alone. That there were at least a hundred people downstairs, if not more.

That didn’t stop Mycroft from analyzing their situation and scheming outlandish plans for the two of them to snatch a minute away from everyone. It would be difficult. There were unexpected comings and goings and at any second a servant could need Mycroft’s instructions on a myriad of problems. The best place would be in his bedroom. There was a lock on the door. And a bed. And privacy which they could exploit in as advantageous a way as possible.

Arousal twisted through Mycroft’s stomach and he moved forward, trying to appear nonchalant and not as if he wanted to run down the hallway and fling himself at Gregory.

“It was lucky you were there, Captain. I’m not sure what we would have done otherwise.” Mycroft wasn’t paying attention to the words coming out of his mouth, all his focus on approaching the Alpha, his mind racing as he made calculations and analyzed the risks.

“I’m sure you would have done splendidly.”

“Mm.” Mycroft didn’t know if Gregory were willing to clandestinely engage in sexual relations while they were in what was a rather grimy inn, no matter how much the owners had scrubbed it from top to bottom in preparation for the arrival of royalty. Then he remembered that he and Gregory’s first time together had taken place in a very dirty, disreputable inn. And while the allure of Mycroft’s heat had probably assisted Gregory in putting aside the filth surrounding them, he was unsure if that disregard could be applied again in their current situation.

“Gregory.” He began, wiping his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. “I’m not sure if you would be open to-“

“I’ve missed you.”

Mycroft’s head jerked up in surprise at the quiet confession, and Gregory looked equally shocked by his own outburst. He flushed a ruddy red, looking past Mycroft down the hall.

“That wasn’t. I didn’t mean. It’s only. Well. Um. I have missed you. Being with you.”

Mycroft had a very brief debate with himself, looked up and down the darkened hallway, then lunged forward and grabbed at Gregory. The Alpha’s eyes went wide with alarm as Mycroft jerked at him, spinning him around and flinging open his bedroom door before shoving him inside. Mycroft closed the door with a bang, slid the lock home with shaking hands, and then pulled Gregory into a clumsy, overeager kiss.

Gregory inhaled sharply, stiff and unresponsive against Mycroft- but before Mycroft could doubt that he’d made a mistake, Gregory moaned and veritably melted against him. Rough hands came up to cup at his cheeks, Gregory taking over the kiss, and opening Mycroft’s lips with his tongue, sweeping inside with such fervor that Mycroft’s knees went weak.

“I’ve missed you too.” Mycroft tried to say, but his words were lost in the kiss, although he thought Gregory probably still understood because the Alpha’s hands were everywhere, mapping Mycroft’s body and pulling him closer and closer until they were sealed together, each hard and grinding against each other-

The bed squeaked horribly when they landed on it, the mattress springs protesting loudly, but Mycroft didn’t pay any attention, too busy trying to get Gregory out of his clothes as quickly as he could. Even when he was finally naked and Mycroft’s own bare legs were wrapped around his waist, Mycroft was too busy kissing him and bucking upward, tilting his hips to give Gregory better access to where he was wet and leaking, to notice something trivial like the mattress creaking. Gregory reached between them, his hands trembling in a very flattering way as he lined up his cock with Mycroft’s arse before thrusting forward-

_**Bang!** _

They froze, eyes wide, staring at each other in shock.

“What-?” Mycroft craned his head back, glaring at the shadowy headboard and its proximity to the wall where there was already a telling amount of cracks and scuffs and abrasions marring the plaster from years of amorously enthusiastic bed partners. He huffed, inadvertently clenching around Gregory’s cock, and the Alpha cursed and rocked forward again- and the headboard loudly hit the wall.

Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, holding himself immobile as if that would somehow lessen the amount of noise they’d already made.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck.” Gregory buried his face in the bend of Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft could feel him trembling. He couldn’t stop himself from clenching around Gregory’s cock again, needing more, feeling desperate. He slowly tilted his hips up, the mattress giving a soft screech as he did, and Gregory’s cock slipped another inch inside of him. Gregory gasped and went tense against Mycroft, the trembling growing worse. “

Mycroft!”

“Gregory…please…”

“I can’t.” Gregory sounded as if he were literally in pain, his voice coming out as a groan. “I can’t. They’ll hear us…”

Mycroft felt like crying from disappointment. He whimpered and tried to relax, but he could feel Gregory’s cock throbbing in his arse, still hard, and his own cock was trapped between them, leaking against his stomach. He couldn’t relax. It was impossible. Gregory raised up, catching his lips in a kiss, and Mycroft threaded his fingers in Gregory’s hair, pulling at it and straining upward into the kiss. He could smell the Alpha with every breath he took. Gregory hadn’t bathed yet and after a day of riding, under the hot sun, his scent was potent, overwhelmingly Alpha. It was too much, like adding fat to the fire, and Mycroft extricated one of his hands and wrapped it around his cock, mouth falling open when he stroked at it, his toes curling with the pleasure- then just as quickly stopped, blushing.

“I’m sorry-“

“No. Please. Love you. Doing that. Touch yourself.”

Mycroft bit his lip, hand hovering over his erection. “Will you…m-maybe we can…down? On the floor?”

Gregory frowned. “What?”

“Will you…can we…on the floor?”

“ _No_.” Gregory shook his head. “No. I won’t…I _can’t_ take you on the floor.”

Mycroft whimpered- then Gregory was kissing him again and pulling out _slowly…slowly…slowly_ …his cock dragging against Mycroft’s sensitive insides…before just as slowly easing back inside. Mycroft moaned at the stretch and gradual unfurling pleasure and Gregory muttered a string of curses, many of which Mycroft had never heard before and didn’t even know the meaning of. The Alpha did it again and again and again, moving his cock in and out at a pace that was exquisite torture. Mycroft arched and trembled with very deliberate glide, tears springing to his eyes at the frustratingly not-enough thrusts. He wanted to be pounded and taken roughly but that couldn’t happen. Not unless they wanted to get caught.

“You won’t be able to come this way.” He guessed as Gregory gave another restrained thrust.

“S’fine.” Gregory nuzzled at the bend of Mycroft’s neck, huffing against his skin. “Touch yourself for me, gorgeous.”

Even agitated as he was, Mycroft still preened at being called ‘gorgeous’ and he felt Gregory chuckle. Lips pressed against the side of his neck, the barest hint of teeth teasing, causing his skin to prickle.

“Touch yourself.” Gregory said again, and Mycroft did as he was told, curling his hand around his cock and stroking quickly, in direct opposition to the slow, unhurried thrusts. Gregory rose up on his elbows to watch him, grinding his cock into Mycroft and making him whimper. It didn’t take long. Surrounded by the scent of Alpha, filled by his cock and with Gregory’s lips on his own to muffle his moans, Mycroft came quickly, warm splashes of ejaculate striping over his stomach in rapid bursts. Gregory groaned with each burst, Mycroft’s body clenching down on him, his arse squeezing his cock each time.

Afterward, Mycroft kissed Gregory, sucking on his tongue in what he hoped was a suggestive way (which he thought was accurate judging from the way Gregory went wild when he did it) while Gregory jerked himself off, stripping his cock almost frantically and coming on Mycroft, adding to the mess already decorating his stomach. Mycroft giggled, high on the thrill of what they’d just done and the happiness of being with Gregory again, and was rewarded with kisses pressed along his jaw and cheeks and chin and forehead and everything was wonderful and perfect.

Even when Gregory left the bed to find a rag to clean them with, it was perfect because he _stayed_ , climbing back into the bed in slow, exaggerated movements so as to keep the mattress from squeaking and the headboard from banging- and Mycroft began giggling again because it was just so...ridiculous. And amazing. They were both sweaty and probably stinky. Mycroft didn’t care. He snuggled against Gregory with a happy sigh, closing his eyes with something akin to relief.

It felt right.

And as odd as it sounded, for some bizarre reason, even though he was miles from Marseille and sleeping in a broken-down, none-too-clean bed, without any of the comforts he was accustomed to, wrapped in Gregory’s arms…it felt like coming _home_.


	5. Chapter 4

John would never admit he was pouting.

He was 15-years-old and an Alpha. He did _not_ pout. His father had always told him pouting was for babies and Omegas or weak, sissy Alphas who weren’t worth their knot. None of which applied to John.

John had never pouted in his entire life. Not once.

He really hadn’t.

And he wasn’t pouting now either, he reassured himself, as the royal procession made its slow way toward Eguisheim. As soon as they’d started from the inn that morning, John guided his horse as far away from the main column of the procession as possible. He’d ridden through the surrounding fields, not wanting to talk to anyone, urging his horse into a gallop when his emotions sometimes got the better of him. Which happened very often.

But he wasn’t _pouting_.

He just wanted to be by himself. There was nothing wrong with that. Plenty of people liked to be by themselves. John did too. It had nothing to do with last night. Or Sherlock. Or what Lennox had said to John before helping Sherlock down from his horse.

And it absolutely had nothing to do with the little whimper of pain Sherlock had made when he slid from the back of his horse into Lennox’s arms…or the way that little sound drove through John like a sharp knife. The intensity had, for a few seconds, literally taken his breath away-

John spurred his horse into a gallop, comforted that with every step he put more distance between himself and Sherlock. He wanted to be as far away from the little Omega as possible. He’d never had such a visceral reaction before. To anyone. Ever.

He didn’t like it.

And it wasn’t just the sound Sherlock had made last night which affected John so much. He wished it was. He could’ve probably dealt with that.

Maybe.

But it’d also been the hummingbird quick way Sherlock’s heartbeat fluttered when John kissed the skin of his wrist and how his innocent, sweet scent- which shouldn’t have had any effect whatsoever on John because Sherlock was a child- had made John feel…made him want to…

He’d wanted to yank Sherlock out of Captain Lestrade’s arms and take care of him personally. The need to dote on him had been so strong that John had almost done just that, the idea of not being able to make Sherlock feel better himself as agonizing as sandpaper against his skin.

And that scared the hell out of John.

John’s horse thundered through the field he was in and then jumped a low, wooden fence into the next one. The field was recently cleared, no obstructions in his path, and so John gave his horse free rein to race ahead, letting the wind whip against his face and firmly put all of those thoughts of his head.

As much as he could.

* * *

 

Sherlock would never admit he was pouting.

Of course, he pouted all the time. He was 11-years-old and very petty. His sulks were legendary and known to last for days. Sometimes they lasted weeks if Mycroft put him in enough of a bad mood.

But at that moment, Sherlock would have rather eaten shards of glass than admit to his older brother he was pouting.

“Would you please sit up?”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He didn’t move from his insolent sprawl on the seat opposite his older brother and father in the royal carriage. “No.”

“I would prefer for you to sit up properly.”

“That’s not what _I_ would prefer.”

“It would be very helpful,” Mycroft said through clenched teeth and a thin veneer of patience, “if you would sit up.”

“What for?”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“You’re talking to me right now.”

“It is polite to give proper attention to someone when carrying on a conversation with them.” Each word was growled more than actually spoken. Mycroft’s annoyance was palpable. Sherlock’s lips curved in a cheeky smirk.

“Is it?”

Mycroft huffed and the carriage seat creaked as he flung himself back against it in exasperation. Mycroft’s frustration gave Sherlock a fierce sort of joy. He kept his eyes closed to relish it.

Sherlock had been in a rotten mood since the previous night when they’d all arrived at the inn and everything had gone, as the saying went, “tits up”. (Sherlock didn’t actually know what that phrase meant. He’d heard it expressed when events went sideways in an unexpected way by some of the soldiers and he felt it was applicable to his current situation.) He hadn’t meant to get himself hurt. Or get John in trouble with his uncle, who’d upbraided John for being a bad Alpha.

Which was absurd. John wasn’t a bad Alpha. He was an amazing Alpha. Sherlock was lucky to have him.

Then, there’d been Captain Lestrade’s frustration with both John and Sherlock, perfectly coupled with Mycroft’s fury when he saw Sherlock’s trousers, spotted with blood and clinging to his thighs in wet patches.

Just thinking about his thighs made them twinge. The pain was worse today than last night. Sherlock hadn’t thought that was possible. He’d probably feel better if he were allowed to go without trousers. The fabric, no matter how soft, felt like a steel wool brush scrubbing against his raw inner thighs. Mycroft, though, had insisted that Sherlock put his trousers on before they left the inn that morning. They’d fought about it. Sherlock insisted that no one would be seeing him anyway since he’d be traveling in the royal carriage all day. He’d keep the curtains drawn, he’d promised.

Mycroft had been unmoved.

Sherlock hated him.

Mycroft was terrible. The worst older brother imaginable. He’d said _very_ mean things to Sherlock last night. He hadn’t apologized for them either.

Sherlock didn’t want to ride all day long in the carriage with Mycroft. He would rather be anywhere else than near his brother.

Not only that, but Sherlock was uncomfortably aware that he and Mycroft hadn’t been alone together since the night of The Incident- when Sherlock found a naked Captain Lestrade in Mycroft’s bedroom.

A very, _very_ naked Captain Lestrade.

Mycroft wanted to discuss what had happened. Sherlock emphatically did not. Which meant that, if he had to ride in the carriage with Mycroft, Sherlock was grateful they weren’t actually alone: Mycroft would never mention his relationship with Captain Lestrade in front of their father.

“Boys, please do not fight.” Consort Holmes reproved, his tone gentle. Sherlock had never heard him raise his voice. “Let’s try and have a pleasant time together.”

“I expected better from you, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, ignoring his father. “I honestly can’t believe how childish you’re being.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open in outrage. “I’m not being childish.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No. I’m. Not.”

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose, as if he smelled something horrible, and pitched his voice high in a condescending imitation of his brother. “ _Mycroft_.”

“Boys…”

“I am only trying to help.” Mycroft snapped. “You’re acting as if all of this is my fault, when you know very well it isn’t. If you hadn’t behaved like you did yesterday- riding until you were literally bleeding- you wouldn’t be confined to the carriage with father and I…and we would have a much nicer traveling experience.”

That hurt. Sherlock jerked upright, glaring. Mycroft stared back at him, insufferably smug.

“That isn’t true.” Consort Holmes did his best to diffuse the situation. “I’m enjoying this time we’re spending together and having both my sons with me.”

“You’re the only one.” Mycroft declared. Sherlock bared his teeth.

“Well, I’d rather be anywhere than stuck in here with you.” He snarled, incensed when Mycroft waved a dismissive hand. Sherlock was losing control of the situation, had already lost. Mycroft had the upper hand now. Sherlock hated him.

“And you would be somewhere else, brother mine, if you’d been smarter yesterday and used your gods-given intelligence instead of letting yourself go over all moony about John Watson.”

“I think it’s sweet, how Sherlock acts with Prince John.” Consort Holmes said, but that was entirely the wrong thing to say.

“It’s not sweet- and I didn’t go over all moony about John!” Sherlock shouted, and in the small confines of the carriage the sound made everyone wince. “Besides. He’s my betrothed. I can spend time with him if I want! And you’re one to talk anyway. After the things I’ve seen. I’ve seen the way you act with-“

“ _Sherlock_!” Mycroft lunged across the carriage, as if to physically prevent Sherlock from finishing that sentence, but Sherlock realized he’d gone too far and snapped his mouth shut. But the damage was done. Because for all his mild manners and retiring disposition, Consort Holmes wasn’t an unobservant moron.

“You’ve seen the way Mycroft acts with…who?”

The brothers regarded each other silently, a whole conversation taking place in the space of a few seconds. Sherlock could see how desperate Mycroft was for him to keep his secret and he felt a sick swipe of guilt that he’d almost blabbed. No matter how angry Sherlock was at his brother, he wouldn’t do that.

“No one.” Sherlock stretched himself out on the seat again, closing his eyes, and Mycroft looked out the window, his arms crossed. Their father looked between them, putting two and two together but choosing not to say anything.

The carriage continued its way over the rutted road. There were sounds all around them- jingling of bits and reins, horses snorting, raised voices and shouting and laughter, bursts of singing, the tramp of hundreds of feet- which emphasized how quite their own party was. Inside the carriage, the silence was loaded and tense.

“Mycroft, darling.” Consort Holmes finally broke the silence. “Have you found someone whom you esteem?” His voice was quiet and low, calm, but Mycroft still flinched. He kept his eyes fixed on the countryside passing by outside the window.

“Don’t be absurd. Of course I haven’t. Sherlock was just being ridiculous.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Sherlock usually acts ridiculous.”

“That wasn’t really what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. However, there is nothing for me to confess. To imply that there is would be absurd. And,” Mycroft continued, speaking to the window, “all I wanted to tell Sherlock was that he needed to take better care of himself, since it seems that John will not.”

“John does too take care of me!” Sherlock protested, but his argument was undermined when it a particularly jarring pothole in the road shook him and he winced as the muscles in his thighs were jostled. “And I’m not being ridiculous!”

“It would be fine if you had found someone whom you esteem, Mycroft.” Consort Holmes hesitantly ventured. “I know the circumstances are less than ideal…but it is possible that-“

“John isn’t a bad Alpha-“

“We could maybe speak to your mother-“

“He takes care of me-“

“- she may, if she approved of the Alpha and you were very careful-“

_“Would you both please shut up!”_

Mycroft rarely raised his voice. His yelling now was so unexpected that Sherlock shrank against the seat and their father looked scandalized.

“I haven’t found someone whom I esteem. Even if I had,” Mycroft dropped his voice to a whisper, which was somehow worse than his shouting, “it would not be possible for me to actually be with someone in a meaningful way unless I wanted to risk exposure and place Sherlock in danger. Which I would never do.” He met Sherlock’s eyes and, after a split second, the little Omega dropped his own, uncomfortable, shame pricking at him which hurt worse than his legs.

“Let me out.” Mycroft commanded, sticking his head out of the window, and the carriage lurched to an abrupt stop without any further warning, sending Sherlock rolling onto the floor. He grabbed at the seat to try and anchor himself, but his fingers slipped over the fabric and he landed heavily on the floor with a pained yelp. He scowled up at Mycroft who simpered at him in return.

“That wouldn’t have happened if you were sitting up properly.” Was Mycroft's parting remark before he climbed down from the carriage and slammed the door in Sherlock’s furious face.

* * *

 

John hated that Sherlock was injured.

He picked his way through the sparse lunch he’d packed in his saddlebag, propped in the shade against a tree while his horse drank from a nearby stream. He was ahead of the royal procession. If he squinted his eyes, they were a far-off speck in the distance. He could see the clouds of dust thrown high into the air and the gleam of armor reflecting the sun. He watched as they came closer, dread a hard knot in the pit of his stomach.

He really hated that Sherlock was injured. The knowledge that he was injured- and that John himself could have prevented it- crawled over him like millions of tiny ants, stinging and uncomfortable. He twitched, trying to get rid of the sensation but couldn’t.

He growled, annoyed. Sherlock wasn’t a godsdamn infant, John fumed, rubbing at his arms to make the tingling ache go away. He shouldn’t have to look after the Omega every single godsdamn hour of the day. Sherlock was smart. He was eleven years old for fucks sake. He didn’t need to be told every single sodding move to make and when to make it. If he’d known that the lengthy ride was hurting him, he should’ve stopped. Or at least told John he was in pain.

John had known Sherlock wasn’t used to riding long distances. But he’d thought- mistakenly, he added bitterly- that if something were something wrong, Sherlock would let him know so he could fix the problem. Hadn’t they just gone through that very thing earlier in the week? With the sword fighting incident and Sherlock’s hands?

John stood in exasperation, abandoning his food, no longer hungry and unable to sit still any longer. He began pacing. His horse watched him with wary eyes.

Hadn’t he proven to Sherlock that he needed to speak up when there was a problem? That if he did speak up, it would be fine? John wouldn’t get mad? He would do anything in his power to fix whatever was bothering Sherlock? Hadn’t John proven that to him?

Clearly not.

If Sherlock would ride until he was bleeding, then he obviously didn’t believe John would care. It stung, the obvious lack of faith Sherlock had in him and his reactions. John spent the next few minutes working himself up into a rage, getting angrier by the second as he imagined what sorts of things Sherlock probably thought about him and why and what Mycroft sodding Holmes had probably told his little brother and how he’d skewed Sherlock’s way of thinking about John against him, and thinking of bitter rejoinders to make to the little Omega the next time they met.

By the time John saw the trudging column of the procession and re-mounted his horse, he was in a foul mood. He wished he’d never left Scotland if this was the sort of situation he’d find himself in: saddled with an Omega child who couldn’t take care of themselves but didn’t trust John to do it either…

The stinging ache over his skin increased. It throbbed. John winced, hunching in on himself atop his horse.

Well, he thought savagely, straightening up and jerking the reins, steering his horse toward the road, if he were such a bad Alpha then no one would be surprised if he spent all day by himself being selfish and only caring about his own concerns. Would they? It didn’t matter anyway. Did it? Sherlock was going to think whatever he wanted to think about John and there was nothing John could do to change that. He’d already tried to be a good Alpha- and see where that’d gotten him.

Nowhere. That’s where. Fucking nowhere.

He may as well do as he fucking pleased, he decided, not even scanning the approaching vehicles and people for a glimpse of the royal carriage.

As he rode away, he was proud of himself for resisting the search for a sight of Sherlock. But the craving to see the Omega seared like fire to the depths of John’s bones. He needed to see him. He had to check and make sure Sherlock was fine. That he wasn’t further injured or upset or in need of something that John could provide him.

John thought about the way Sherlock extended his wrist to be scented and kissed.

He almost turned his horse back around.

“Fuck.” He grit his teeth and spurred his horse onward, into a gallop, and refused to give in and look back.

* * *

 

Hooves thundered up behind him and then someone landed heavily, their light armor clanking as their feet jarred when they hit the ground. Mycroft didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.

“Your Highness. What’re you doing?”

“I should think it would be fairly obvious, Captain Lestrade. I’m walking.”

“Yeah, but why? You never walk.”

“I walk all of the time. How else do you suppose I ambulate about? Float?”

Captain Lestrade didn’t respond, and Mycroft felt bad for needling him. It wasn’t his fault that Sherlock was such a brat and had put Mycroft in a bad mood. He spared a quick glance at the Captain, so handsome in his uniform and armor, and his heart skipped a traitorous beat.

_“Have you found someone whom you esteem?”_

“Forgive me, Captain. I’m currently walking because if I’d stayed inside the carriage with Sherlock and my father another second, I would have turned raving mad.”

Captain Lestrade snorted. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.” 

They fell into companionable silence, the Captain walking beside Mycroft at a respectful distance. It felt like miles.

“I did want to speak to you, Captain. I believe that we’ll reach Eguisheim before nightfall.” Mycroft ventured, wondering if Captain Lestrade would understand his meaning.

“Yes, Your Highness. I’ve estimated we will arrive in another five hours.” Captain Lestrade paused. “And that it will be eight more hours until it’ll be…time to retire to bed.”

Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath, desire twisting through him. Eight more hours. That’s all it would be. And then he would be kissed and held and pleasured by Gregory in the privacy of his bedroom at Eguisheim- behind a locked door and with hours and hours before anyone would disturb them. It sounded like heaven.

“Yes, Captain.” Was all he could manage, and they continued walking, each lost in their own reveries about what would happen that night.

The dust from the procession was choking and the sun relentlessly beat down on Mycroft’s head. He could feel himself starting to sweat, moisture accumulating along his spine and beneath his arms. He wrinkled his nose. He wished he’d stayed in the carriage. No matter how exasperating Sherlock could be, dealing with him wouldn’t have been as bad as this. They’d barely covered a mile and Mycroft was already tired.

“Do you want me to get your horse, Your Highness?”

Mycroft nodded. “Please.”

“We’re still far from Eguisheim. Are you sure you can handle riding that far?”

“I think so, Captain. After all…I’ve been told that I’m an excellent rider so long as I have the proper mount.” Mycroft heard Gregory’s breath catch and smiled. It was fun, teasing him about something so innocuous when they both knew Mycroft meant something much, much dirtier.

“Yes, Your Highness. You are an excellent rider. I look forward to seeing your performance… _tonight_.”

Mycroft tripped over his own feet and would have fallen if it weren't for Captain Lestrade's hand wrapped around his arm, steadying him.

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I shouldn't have...Well. I'll just go and get your horse."

Mycroft wondered what it felt like to have an erection while in the saddle. He hoped he managed to calm down before Gregory returned with his horse because he did not want to find out.

* * *

 

There was a ceremony to formally welcome the royal party to Eguisheim. It took place on the sprawling veranda overlooking the castle gardens which were in full bloom, with everyone in attendance. John and Sherlock stood side by side in front of everyone while the noble Eguisheim family bowed to them and the Alpha lord offered polite speeches welcoming them to Eguisheim and declaring how he and his family were so honored, flattered, pleased, grateful…

Sherlock let his attention wander.

He was so tired. They’d been traveling all day and he wished they could’ve had the ceremony later, after everyone had cleaned up and napped and maybe had some dinner. At the idea of food, his stomach rumbled, loud in the hushed area. He saw John glance at him from the corner of his eyes and reddened.

The ceremony dragged.

Sherlock didn’t care what the Alpha lord had to say. Nor did he care for his wife who curtseyed and smiled at John in a way that Sherlock didn’t like even though he didn’t understand why.

It was too hot on the stone veranda with the evening sun streaking the sky and blinding them. Sherlock was stifled in his clothes. His cheeks felt too hot and his curls were limp against his forehead, soaked with sweat. He was sticky. He wanted to go inside, into the cool of the castle and wash off the grit and sweat from traveling and have some dinner and then go to bed.

The Alpha lord was _still_ talking.

Sherlock peeked at John. He looked fine, totally at ease, if a little bored. He hadn’t said a word to Sherlock all day, not even a greeting when they were stood together for the ceremony. He’d barely looked at Sherlock. It was obvious that John was mad at him, and Sherlock’s stomach sank with the awareness.

John probably thought Sherlock had acted like an idiot yesterday, just like Mycroft and everyone else did, and he was angry at Sherlock for being irresponsible and continuing to ride when he shouldn’t have. John had realized how childish and stupid Sherlock was and didn’t want to be his friend anymore.

Sherlock wanted to apologize to John and make things right, but he didn’t know how. And what if John didn’t accept his apology? What then?

Sherlock shifted on his feet and winced as the raw places on the insides of his thighs began to sting, sweat irritating his wounds. He was utterly miserable.

“…and now, if it pleases Your Majesties,” The Alpha lord motioned for a servant to approach, “my wife and I have a gift to welcome you to Eguisheim and to bless your future union as Alpha and Omega.”

Sherlock looked, mildly curious as to what the gift was-

He reeled backward, choking on air, staring with shocked horror at the statue that was being offered to John. It was a bronze statue of a couple, completely naked and intimately entwined, Alpha and Omega in their respective roles. The Omega was dwarfed by the Alpha's big, strong, powerful body and their head was tipped submissively to the side, a look of ecstasy on their face as the Alpha bit at their neck. The Alpha’s teeth were embedded in the Omega’s neck. Their arms were wrapped around the smaller body, holding the Omega close, and the Alpha's cock was buried in the Omega's-

Blood rushed to Sherlock’s cheeks. He wanted to look away but couldn’t, morbidly fascinated by the statue which the Alpha lord was extending to John. John, for his part, looked equally mortified but accepted the gift with a stammered thanks.

“This is a fertility statue which has been sanctified by the gods and prayed over by our priests.” The Alpha lord explained. Sherlock watched John’s fingers touch the bronze figures and felt lightheaded. He glanced away and his eyes collided with the Alpha’s wife. She smirked at Sherlock, silently laughing at him.

“It is a blessing for you and your Omega, that your future bond will be strong and happy, and that your matings will be beneficial and produce many offspring...”

Everyone was staring at them. They were watching John accept a fertility statue depicting a graphic mating and Sherlock was standing there as his newly made betrothed. His future mate. They were talking about _him_.

“As the Omega naturally submits to the Alpha in all things, this statue depicts the Omega in their proper position, presenting to the Alpha and offering themselves up as a vessel for the Alpha’s pleasure and advantage…”

Sherlock wanted to make the Alpha lord shut up but there was nothing he could do without giving offense. His eyes darted around the veranda, looking for an escape, for someone to help. He wanted John to say something, to defer and end the ceremony, but he was just standing there, holding the statue, letting the Alpha lord ramble on and on about their future bond and matings and children and-

There were no other options. There was nothing else Sherlock could do.

He fainted.

Sherlock was prepared to hit the stone veranda hard because the most convincing faints were lifeless. One did not faint and then catch themselves on their way down. When someone fainted, they _fainted_. Sherlock didn’t look forward to more injuries, even bruises, but he had to end the ceremony. He couldn’t stand there another minute and watch John fondle that statue.

He was ready for the pain of a hard impact-

-there was a strange, clanging thud-

Arms caught Sherlock before he hit the ground, holding his unresponsive body against a lean but muscled chest. Sherlock breathed in the familiar scent of Alpha.

_John_.

All around them was chaos. People were crying out, talking loudly, hundreds of people murmuring. Someone called for a doctor. Footsteps echoed on the veranda as others came running to check on Sherlock and make sure he was fine. Sherlock felt John’s arms tighten around him.

“What’s happened to him!”

“Is he alright?”

“The Omega Crown Prince!”

“Get a glass of water- hurry, quick!”

Sherlock experienced a disconcerting swooping sensation and then he was in John’s arms, legs dangling over his arm and head pillowed against his chest. His scent was strongest there and when Sherlock breathed deeply, relief swept through him, assuaging a pain he hadn’t realized was there. Tears pricked at his eyes beneath his closed lids at the cessation of discomfort and he thought he felt, very briefly, an answering scenting against the top of his hair.  

“Prince John.” Captain Lestrade sounded worried. “Here. I’ll take him.”

Sherlock felt John move them and he was already disappointed that their time together was at an end- when John stepped back, tightening his hold on Sherlock again.

“I have him, Captain.”

“But-“

“Please stand aside. Show me to his room and I’ll take him there.”

Mycroft’s voice chimed in. “I do not think it would be seemly for you to-“

“He’s my Ome-…he’s my betrothed. I can take care of him without it looking unseemly.” John sounded irritated and Sherlock wanted to squirm with happiness at the proof of how much John wanted him and wanted to take care of him. He remained motionless, though, not wanting to give up the ruse that he was passed out.

But he did, once John had won the argument and carried him inside- carefully squint his eyes open the barest of slivers so he could look up at John-

John was staring back at him.

Sherlock gasped, involuntary, and quickly closed his eyes again, but the damage was done. His stomach was in knots. He was worried that John would stop and call him out on the ruse, put him on his feet and then walk away. How much angrier would John be that Sherlock had tricked him? That he’d acted childishly... _again_? That he'd made a scene and embarrassed him in front of the entire Court?

Not that it was Sherlock's fault. If anything, it was the Alpha lord's fault. And Sherlock hadn't asked John to catch him anyway.

Sherlock was prepared to lie and say that he'd really fainted out on the veranda. Maybe John wouldn't be too mad at him if he claimed innocence. He already had six different arguments in his head, each one tailored to the most likely responses John would have...when he felt John sigh.

"I know you're not unconscious." He murmured against the top of Sherlock's head, and this time Sherlock knew he didn't imagine the subtle scenting to his damp curls. "You're really something else. You know that?"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't even know what John meant by it. And since John didn't seem to want an answer, Sherlock pretended to remain unconscious and lie still in John's arms, letting himself be taken care of.

John chuckled, scenting at the top of his head again before adjusting his grip on Sherlock, pressing him closer to his chest. "You're really something else."


	6. Equidistance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely made up of my OC's and takes place in a pub wherein the citizens of Eguisheim are discussing what happened between John and Sherlock.

“Did you hear what happened yesterday?”

“Have you heard?”

“Did you hear what happened at the ceremony to welcome the Omega Crown Prince and his betrothed to the city?”

The news of what had happened the previous evening swept through the city of Eguisheim, spreading from house to house like the plague. It was all anyone could talk about and the early morning patrons of The Cock and Seamen pub in the lower district were no exception.

They were a motley crew, made up of working-class Alphas, laborers, who wanted a meal and a stiff drink before starting the day’s work. A handful of Omega prostitutes, dressed much too gaudily for so early of a morning, shared breakfast, those who’d worked until the small hours of the morning noticeably drooping, weary after a long night of hard trade. There was a huddle of older Omegas sitting near the bar who were part of an organization campaigning in the lower district for societal reform. They’d already taken the Omega prostitutes under their collective wings and bought them cups of coffee, distributing leaflets as they did detailing the dangers of knotting before bonding. An altruistic offer for the prostitutes to live at the halfway house where their room and board and meals would be provided in exchange for a life of clean living was extended. Lukewarm replies had been made.

A few Alphas sat at the bar itself, already red-eyed, their speech slurred, shaking hands clutching tumblers of amber liquid. The odd errand boy or two came in with deliveries and lingered to hear the latest gossip. And as the patrons began discussing what had happened up at the castle, there was plenty to hear.

“The little Omega Prince fainted! Yes!” The pubkeeper, a wily-looking man who went by the name Johnson said, closing one eye and smirking when he saw that he had everyone’s attention. “Fainted dead away, they said.”

“That’s what I heard!”

“He fainted dead away,” Johnson continued, nodding sagely, face alight with all the excitement telling shocking news provided, “ _and_ …” He paused for effect, looking around the common room to make sure he had everyone’s attention, “and the Scottish Alpha caught him in his arms.”

“ _No_!”

“Oh! Did he _really_?”

“You don’t say!”

“Now that’s not what I heard-“

“How romantic!” A male Omega prostitute with wavy brown hair and doe-eyes murmured. His friend gave him a giddy smile.

“Like something outta a play. Isn’t it, Louis? Like the one we seen last summer when we went to the big city.”

“Exactly.” Louis said, sighing. “I’ve never had someone catch me when I fainted. The couple of times I did, the Alphas around me let me hit the floor. Not a single one of them even made an effort.”

Johnson scoffed. “Ain’t nothing romantic about it. Seemed like something outta a comedy maybe, to me.” He said, and put a hand to his forehead and gave an exaggerated, high-pitched groan, pretending to swoon. There was a loud round of laughter at that. Louis and his friend blushed and tucked their heads down, giving their breakfast their full attention.

A stone-faced Omega from the reform society tsked, glaring at the lot of them. “A fine thing to make a jest of!” She scolded, the feathers in her hat quivering with indignation. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Every single one of you! Carrying on as you are over the poor little lamb’s unfortunate incident. I’d like to see how you’d have reacted, placed in the same situation with all those eyes on you, judging you and the like!”

“Still wouldn’t have fucking fainted.” One of the drunk Alphas muttered, but very quietly so the Omega matron couldn’t hear him.

“The procession had been traveling all day long and I’m sure the little Omega Prince was so tired.” Another of the prostitutes piped up, earning himself a gracious smile from the be-feathered matron. “They had him standing outside in the heat…”

“Exactly! We’ve all heard how delicate the little boy is and this is just another example of that. It was simply all too much for him. Do you know? I heard that he was actually allowed to ride in the royal procession when it left Marseille!”

“Surely not!”

“Yes! On horseback, beside the Scottish Alpha. My sister told me and her cousin was there to see it.”

“Well, if he was riding beside the Scottish Alpha then it was alright.” Johnson said, refilling the coffee pot and laying down a rasher of bacon for the prostitutes. “An Alpha always knows what’s best for their Omega, and that’s a fact.”

There were murmurs of agreement and nods from everyone, but the Omega prostitutes exchanged silent looks, rolling their eyes in a silent show of defiance and repudiation.

“Well, I think the little Omega’s roped himself a good Alpha.” An Alpha laborer announced, standing and laying down a few bills to pay for his breakfast. It was a sign for all the others and they began wolfing down their remaining food so they could leave with him. “My cousin works up at the castle and she said that the Alpha’s the one who carried the little Omega into the castle- carried him in his arms the whole way to the bedchambers without any help.”

One of the Omega prostitutes whistled and the rest of their table broke out in hysterical giggles. The older reform society Omegas gave them quelling looks, lips tightly pressed together, but the Alpha laborers smirked, knowing the way of things and discreetly flexing their muscles.

“My cousin said the little Omega’s head was just lolling about, his eyes closed, totally out of it, she said. She said she’d never seen a more affecting sight than the little boy, not even higher than my waist, all pale and cold and lifeless, being carried away by his betrothed who- my cousin said- looked very upset about what happened-”

“Of course he was upset!” Johnson butted in eagerly, suddenly remembering the best part of the whole story. “Any Alpha worth their knot would be upset when their future mate faints over the idea of getting fucked.”

There were shocked gasps and titters all around the room. Some of the Omega prostitutes clapped hands of their mouths, stunned. Such things just weren’t talked about! The Omega reformers looked outraged, flushing red from both anger and embarrassment.

“What language!”

“You ought to be ashamed of saying such things in mixed company! Such words are not fit for Omega ears!”

“Oh, please.” An Alpha laborer scoffed, too stupid to remember to flex his muscles at the best time- when everyone’s attention turned to him. “Most Omegas in this room have heard worse. Hell, most of the Omegas in this room have done worse.” He gestured to the cluster of Omega prostitutes who hissed at him, glaring, making a mental note of his face. He smiled back at them, unaware that he’d never be able to pull another of them again.

“Well, I never!”

“Now, now, now!” Johnson held out a placating hand, wanting to keep the peace…and the attention. “Albert’s right. And what I said is true. I’ve heard more than one person say that the little Omega fainted when Lord Cavill and his wife gave him and his betrothed a fertility statue. A very _lifelike_ fertility statue, I was told.”

“Oh? What does that mean?” A female reformer asked, looking intrigued despite herself, and Johnson leaned his elbows on the bar, giving her a lazy smile. She blushed.

“I heard…” Once again, he paused for dramatic effect, “…it showed a mating. _In progress_.” He raised his eyebrows significantly, and the Omega’s blush deepened. “Alpha and Omega, embracing, and the Alpha was-“

“It showed an Omega getting fucked good and proper by their Alpha, and none too gentle, if you can believe what Betsy says.” One of the drunk Alphas interjected, punctuating his declaration with a swig from his glass. Johnson frowned at having his thunder stolen.

“Who the hell is Betsy, Victor?”

“Betsy!” Victor cried, his words slurring together as he explained. “You remember Betsy? Old Thomas’ daughter what now works at the castle for the Cavill’s? Aw, she’s full of information like that. Says Lord and Lady Cavill have a whole room up there just dedicated to them statues. Some bigger than others. Some of them _human sized_ , if you catch my drift.” He wiggled his eyebrows and one of the reformers tsked. The prostitutes began giggling again. “She says she’s the one what goes in and dusts them every so often…and sometimes cleans up _other things_ when the Cavill’s go in to view them and get _inspired_.”

“Of all the nerve!”

“Such things aren’t fit for human ears!”

“I’m just repeating what she said!” Victor whined.

“That doesn’t matter. Betsy- whoever that is- shouldn’t have said it in the first place!”

“But whatever were they thinking,” An Omega prostitute with curly red hair and a smattering of freckles over his nose earnestly questioned, “giving something like that to a little Omega? A child? Especially one so delicate as the Crown Prince?”

“He’s only 11 years old. I didn’t even know what a knot was until I was 15.” Louis, the other prostitute, acknowledged, and the Alpha laborers exchanged knowing looks. A few leered at him and Louis pretended not to notice but his ears went red.

“Age don’t matter. He’s got to learn about it sooner or later.” An older Alpha laborer, who’d been quiet up until this point, scorned. “It don’t matter how delicate the Crown Prince is. He’s an Omega, and he’s betrothed now. He’ll be marrying that romantic Alpha in another few years and then he’ll be mated and knotted and bonded. And that’s just the way of things. The sooner he knows what’s expected of him, the better they’ll all be.”

“That’s what I was meaning earlier!” Johnson cried, exasperated. “It’s why the Scottish Alpha got so pissed over what happened. The Omega he’s betrothed to, the one he’s supposed to marry and bond and bed- faints when he’s shown what’ll need to be done. It’s enough to make any Alpha angry. No one wants a frigid Omega.” He finished, and the common room exploded into heated conversation.

“He’s a child!”

“He won’t be forever!”

“There’s enough time to learn about those things later!”

“He needs to learn about them now so as to know what to expect!”

“I agree! My mum didn’t tell me anything about what to expect and my wedding night was…awful. Just. Awful.”

“Well, I knew and it wasn’t no better. Knowledge doesn’t mean he’ll be panting over the Alpha’s knot.”

“If he continues at this rate, that Scottish Alpha will find himself locked out of the bedroom on his wedding night, listening while his Omega fucks himself with a dildo and knots himself-“

“How disgusting! We are discussing a child!”

“I didn’t say he was a child _then_! I said when they get _married_!”

“The little Omega reacted properly.” An Omega reformer declared, his voice carrying over the hullabaloo and calling order to the common room once again. He was a large, overweight, and imposing man, older than most of the others, and with greying hair at his temples. Dressed well, he exuded leadership and everyone fell silent despite themselves to hear what he had to say. “The Omega Crown Prince shouldn’t know about knots and heats until he is of age, and it’s appropriate for his Alpha to teach him about those things when the time comes. That’s the correct way. I think we can all agree about that.” He added significantly. “Lord Cavill’s gift was highly inappropriate, and I think the best thing for each of us to do, instead of sitting in a pub arguing about it, is to conduct ourselves to the nearest temple and pray to the gods that the little Omega prince forgets about this incident, and that it has not scarred him in the future and tarnished him for holy relations during his special time with his husband. Dears,” He added, addressing himself to his own table, “gather your things. We’re leaving. I think we’ve lingered long enough.”

The censure in his voice was obvious, and the rest of the patrons watched silently as the reformers filed out of the pub in offended dignity. Once they were gone, almost everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Even the sun seemed to shine brighter when they were gone.

“Gods above, them Omegas are a piece of work.” Johnson said, once the last had departed, the door swinging shut behind them. “Wish they’d quit coming around here. Don’t even tip well and ruins business, them sitting over there looking all stern and high-and-mighty with their judgments and fucking leaflets, telling folks how to do their own affairs…”

“I think they’re nice.” Louis the prostitute said, but he was laughed at and decided to keep his mouth shut.

“They’re a bunch of busybodies that need to mind their own business instead of ferreting into everybody else’s.”

“Think we can all pray to the gods for that.” A laborer quipped and the common room dissolved into laughter.

“But was the Scottish Alpha really angry?” The red-haired Omega prostitute asked, looking worried. “He might break the betrothal if he really is displeased…”

“Eh. They said he was pretty angry.” Johnson admitted, and the Omega bit his lip, frown deepening.

The Alpha laborers all rose, laying down money to pay for their breakfast and as they were leaving, one of the taller ones stopped by the prostitutes table. He leaned down, propping himself up with a large hand, and grinned at the red-haired prostitute.

“You know, duckie.” He chuckled, chucking the Omega under his chin. “If there weren’t Omegas like that in the world, you’d be outta a job, eh?”

“Might be right, but I haven’t ever had any princes knocking down my door wanting to give me their knot.” Was the acerbic reply and the Alphas grin widened.

“Don’t know why…pretty as you are.”

The Omega rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, mate. Flattery doesn’t work with me. I’d still charge you the same going rate as everyone else. There’s nothing in this world free, what my mother always told me. You’re not the first to try, though. You probably say that to all the Omegas you want to sleep with, huh?”

“No, I don’t. I really mean it. I think you’re probably the prettiest Omega I’ve ever seen.” The grin slipped off the Alpha’s face, and for a few seconds he looked genuinely sincere- then the grin was back in place, indolent and teasing. “Where you gonna be working?”

The Omega blinked at the flash of sincerity, glancing at his friends, then down at the table, confused. “I. Um. I don’t know…I think we’re going to the Old City. They’re having a festival there tonight…”

“This be enough for the day?” The Alpha asked, plunking down a gold coin. The Omega’s eyes widened.

“For the d-day…?”

“Well. I’ll be at work today, won’t I? All day until evening. But will this be enough for me to reserve you for the rest of the day? I’ll come and find you tonight at the Old City and buy you for the rest of the night.” He explained, watching the younger man continue to blink at the gold coin. “I’m buying your time for today while I’m gone, though.”

“But…but you’ll be at work. I won’t…there’s nothing I can do for you….”

The Omega stuttered in confusion and the Alpha stood up, hitching his grin into place, but there was a tightness around his eyes. “Nah. You’re right. I’ll be at work and it’s not like you can visit me there…but this is enough to keep you from work during the day, yeah?” He asked seriously.

The red-haired Omega continued staring at the gold coin until his friend nudged him in the ribs and he startled, blushing and giving the Alpha an apologetic smile. “Um. Y-yes. That’s enough for the day. I’ll…I’ll…if that’s the case then I think I’ll go back to bed. To sleep!” He quickly added before the Alpha got the wrong idea. “Just to sleep. So I’ll be ready for you tonight. And I’ll see you tonight?”

“It’s a date.” The Alpha winked, chucking the Omega under the chin again, then hurried out of the pub after his fellow laborers. The red-haired Omega plucked the coin up from the table, gazing at it with wonder.

His friends waited until the Alpha was gone, then burst into giggles, hooting and slapping the red-head on the back while he blushed, face flaming red, and buried his face in his hands.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is half of a larger chapter which was getting unwiedly. Which means I will (hopefully) have an update quicker than usual since the next chapter is technically already written lol.

By breakfast time the next morning, Sherlock was wishing he could somehow reverse time and redo the welcoming ceremony so he’d never have pretended to faint. It’d been the worst decision of his life.

Everything was _horrible_.

All the way down to breakfast, he heard the whispers. They followed him- hurried, hissing conversations he couldn’t really understand and people in the hallways and rooms he passed through broke off their conversations and glanced at him with wide, curious eyes- then quickly looked away, pretending they hadn’t. He felt their stares against his skin, fluttering like the wings of butterflies, but every time he turned to look…the people would spin around, whipping their head to the side, and feign indifference.

Sherlock pretended not to notice.

After all, he was the Crown Prince of Northumbria. He was used to being the center of attention and the object of fascination and curiosity.

But this was different.

This was _awful_.

Everyone was talking about him and _saying_ _things_ and Sherlock didn’t know they were saying, but the gnawing feeling in his stomach told him it was bad.

Very bad.

* * *

 

Cheerful morning light filled the spacious breakfast room at the castle at Eguisheim, the rays catching on the gilded adornments the room was fitted out with and the wooden table, large enough to seat thirty-odd people, gleamed, inlaid with patterns of golden flowers. There were golden utensils at each place setting, glittering with garish pretentiousness, and the delicate white plates were gaudily rimmed with gold along with the serving dishes of eggs, rashers of bacon, fat sausages, beans, mounds of toast, lumps of butter, and a wide variety of jams. Almost everyone was happy, partaking in the merriment, chattering and excited, because the food was delicious, the day was lovely, the weather warm, and there were plenty of events scheduled all day long for their amusement. The day would conclude with an extravagant dinner party and then a fancy dress ball that was rumored to last until dawn.

Sherlock sighed, slumping in his seat. He didn’t look forward to anything that was planned and after last night, he didn’t think he’d be allowed to go regardless.

He’d barely been allowed down to breakfast.

Last night, after John had carried Sherlock up to his room, he’d been shooed out by Mrs. Hudson (much too quickly because Sherlock hadn’t gotten a chance to “recover” and apologize to John for embarrassing him), and then Sherlock was poked and prodded and fussed over by the palace physicians. Even when Sherlock insisted that he was fine, the wizened old Alphas had whispered to each other and shook their heads, looking grave, as if Sherlock had some deadly illness. B

ed rest and quiet, had been their collective prescription. Sherlock mustn’t be allowed to get too excited or exert himself, they said. The windows were opened wide to provide fresh air. Reading was strongly discouraged. Weak tea and bread was recommended for dinner. If Sherlock became agitated during the night, they cautioned, they must be called for immediately. They suggested asking Prince Watson for an article of clothing so Sherlock could scent at it if he were feeling particularly anxious. In the morning, Sherlock shouldn’t be permitted to bathe in case the water disturbed his delicate humors which were already out of sorts.

“Idiots. The whole lot of them.” Mrs. Hudson had fumed once they were gone as she helped Sherlock undress. “They think they know everything just because they have a knot but they don’t know more than a hedgewitch. And I’d trust one of those more than I’d trust any of these university trained physicians.” She’d herded Sherlock into bed, looking at him worriedly. “You do look peaky, dear, but I suppose that’s the way of things when you’ve had a fright. It’s just lucky John was there and caught you when you fell. You’d be bruised black and blue if he hadn’t. You just lie still now and I’ll make you a cuppa and have you fixed up in no time.”

“I don’t need tea. I really am fine.” Sherlock had protested, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t pay him any attention and Mycroft, when he arrived a few minutes later, hadn’t either.

He’d been worse than the palace physicians. Anxious and fretful. Being annoying. Raging about Lord Cavill and his careless gift. Clucking over Sherlock like a mother hen. Asking if he needed anything. Biting his lip and awkwardly offering to talk about the statue. Feeling at Sherlock’s forehead for fever and peering into his eyes. Nothing Sherlock said had reassured him and Mycroft had insisted on staying the night to “be there in case Sherlock woke up distressed”.

Sherlock had loudly protested. He wanted to be left alone. He was not a fragile Omega who was going to collapse.

Or well.

He was not a fragile Omega who was going to collapse _again_.

Mycroft, though, insisted and he’d only been dissuaded when Sherlock threw his slippers at his head.

“You don’t have to be such an insufferable brat.” Mycroft said as he left in a huff. “I’m only trying to help because I care about you.”

Sherlock knew Mycroft cared about him, and he’d felt bad about being mean. But he didn’t want to be badgered and picked at when he already felt so terrible; however, even if he’d escaped the clutches of his brother, there were still the palace physicians to contend with.

They’d squawked when Sherlock tried to go downstairs to breakfast that morning.

It was much too soon for him to be allowed out of his room. Sherlock needed rest, they insisted, frantic, and he needed quiet. Being around too many people would be harmful. Eating anything other than dry toast would upset him. He may faint again. His nerves would suffer. He was too delicate.

Sherlock had gotten so frustrated he wanted to cry- which he knew would only prove the physicians right- and so he’d swallowed his pride and, burning with humiliation, sent Mrs. Hudson down the hall to ask John if he could please have permission to go down to breakfast.

“Why would I care?” Had been John’s bemused reply.

Hardly a ringing endorsement, but the physicians were appeased.

* * *

Sherlock wished he’d hadn’t bothered to ask and had just stayed in his room.

Sat directly across from him at the breakfast table, John was stone-faced. He’d bowed to Sherlock when he first arrived, but hadn’t even looked at him or asked how he was feeling and Sherlock was too tongue-tied by John’s obvious irritation to say anything. John kept his eyes fixed on his plate and steadily ate, ignoring everyone, while beside him, his man, Stamford, drank his tea while giving John disapproving looks every few minutes from the corner of his eyes, radiating displeasure.

Mycroft was on Sherlock’s right and, while impeccably groomed and dressed in his usual tightly-laced clothes with his typical air of self-assuredness about him, looked oddly pale and didn’t seem inclined to talk. He also ignored Sherlock and Sherlock accepted it as his due. He picked his pastry apart, wanting to cry, crushed that everyone in the world seemed to be angry at him. He barely noticed when Captain Lestrade entered the room and took up his customary place behind Mycroft, his hands clasped behind his back and standing at attention. Mycroft, for his part, barely acknowledged him either. He remained cool and indifferent in his greeting, and Lestrade, for a man who was generally quiet anyway, that morning, seemed strangely subdued.

In fact, the only person talking at their end of the table was Lord Cavill, the Alpha lord who’d given Sherlock and John the now-infamous fertility statue. He wrung his hands, breathlessly stumbling over his words.

“I-I-I do applogize, Your Highness…if-if my mate and I ha-had known of the Omega Crown Prince’s d-delicate sensibilities, we- we never would have presumed to-…to…that is to say, I thought it was all for-for- for the best…”

“What sort of sensibilities did you expect the Crown Prince to have, Lord Cavill?” The scorn underlying Mycroft’s question was sharp enough to sting. Lord Cavill went pale.

“I-I-I…I didn’t mean to imply…please forgive me, Your Highness. Your Majesties.” He half-rose from his seat and awkwardly bowed to both Sherlock and John. “I never meant to imply that the-the Omega Prince was…that he was-“

“Lord Cavill. As I informed you last night,” Mycroft bit out, sitting his teacup down in its saucer with a sharp clink, “you do not need to trouble yourself any further on the matter. While we can all admit that it was an unfortunate occurrence, and that the arrangement could perhaps have been better thought out, my brother and his betrothed extend their thanks for the gift.”

“Do we?” John asked in a low voice, the first thing he’d said all morning, but Mycroft didn’t acknowledge him.

“It was a gift which was given in good faith by a loyal subject, and, while it may not be something which can be appreciated at present, will be something they can value in years to come.” Mycroft finished pointedly, and John scowled down at his plate but kept his mouth shut. Relief suffused Lord Cavill’s face.

“Thank you, Prince Mycroft! Thank you. I promise- I would never have wanted to upset the darling- he’s such a sweet- I’ve heard that Prince Sherlock is the nicest, most innocent little Omega that the country has ever had the good fortune to have- and with that being said- You, Prince John, have clearly been blessed by the gods with a choice of mate that, I believe, and everyone will agree, is such a-“

“Oh, please, do shut up!” Mycroft snapped, and Lord Cavill shrank back in his seat.

The entire table went silent. Conversations tapered off, words dying on people’s lips. All eyes turned to stare at Mycroft who closed his eyes and took a deep breath, smoothing his fingers across the white tablecloth.

“My apologies, Lord Cavill.” Mycroft slowly said, each word calm and crisply enunciated, but cold and in no way friendly. “This morning, I’m afraid that my mind is elsewhere. Please do excuse my lapse.”

“Of-of-of course, of course.” Lord Cavill babbled. “Think nothing of it, Your Highness. Think nothing of it! I’ve often thought that-”

His wife gave him a stern look and Lord Cavill fell silent, turning all his attention to his plate and- to everyone’s relief- didn’t attempt to speak again the rest of the meal.

Sherlock wasn’t hungry. His stomach was tight with nerves. He couldn’t ever remember being so unhappy in his entire life. John was angry with him.

Well, of course he was, Sherlock thought. He’d acted so stupidly the day before yesterday, riding himself sore, and then yesterday fainting in front of the entire royal procession and everyone in Eguisheim. He’d embarrassed John both times, earning the Alpha censure and humiliation and it was all Sherlock’s fault.

Sherlock snuck a quick glance at John, his heart squeezing painfully in his chest at the sight of the Alpha, so closed off and distant. Remote. Ignoring him. They’d been getting along so well together- those wonderful days at Marseille followed by the euphoria of the procession- and Sherlock wished he hadn’t acted so idiotically and ruined everything. At this moment, he and John could be enjoying breakfast together, talking and laughing and planning out the rest of their day which would be filled with lots of fun things outside and then tonight-

Sherlock wished that he’d just endured the embarrassment during the welcoming ceremony. It hadn’t been that bad and, anyway, wouldn’t have lasted very long.

Or, he thought, he wished that he’d acted like a proper prince, like someone John could be proud of, and excused himself from the situation with grace and dignity. Why hadn’t he done that? Why, why, why had he pretended to faint?

Tears smarted at his eyes, burning, and he hid his hands beneath the table on his lap, clenching them into fists to get control of his emotions. He would not cry at the breakfast table in front of everyone. The palace physicians would never let him leave his room again.

But it wasn’t just the last two days, he reminded himself with a sinking feeling, that he’d shown John what a childish betrothed he was. Even at Marseille, Sherlock had demonstrated multiple times how irresponsible and selfish and thoughtless and ridiculous he was and he just wanted John to like him and forgive him and-

He had to apologize to John.

Sherlock spent the rest of breakfast thinking of the different ways he could apologize, composing and arranging beautifully turned phrases and promises but none of them seemed good enough. Because what if John didn’t accept his apology? What if he were so angry at Sherlock that he didn’t want anything else to do with him? What if Sherlock’s display of immaturity at the welcoming ceremony had been the final straw?

He would promise to do better, Sherlock decided. From now on, he would behave like a mature, responsible Omega. A betrothed John could be proud of.

But, he realized, as he stood up at the end of the meal, sneaking one last glance at John from beneath his eyelashes, he didn’t exactly know how to do that.

* * *

 

There was a hunting party planned for after breakfast.

Sherlock wasn’t allowed to go. Not only because the hunt was too violent for an Omega, but it was now deemed too strenuous for his delicate nerves even riding along behind. John could have intervened and given Sherlock permission to go, but he hadn’t said anything and Sherlock didn’t want to mention it. He didn’t want to look like he was whining over being left behind.

He remembered his promise at breakfast to act more mature and so squared his shoulders, put on a happy face, and unhappily resigned himself to spending all afternoon alone.

He couldn’t have ridden a horse anyway, Sherlock conceded reluctantly as he followed everyone outside to the stables to watch them leave. His thighs were still raw and sore. He still would have gone, though, if John had said he could.

Sherlock spent a few minutes feeling sorry for himself, watching the tumult and wishing he could be a part of it. People moved in and out, readying their horses and calling to each other, the excitement in the air palpable. Sherlock sidled up beside Mycroft who stood on the edges of the fray, looking very unenthused. He would be going even thought he detested hunting. And riding. And exertion in general.

Sherlock wanted to ask Mycroft to stay behind with him. He would apologize and they’d spend the day together like they used to and he would even let Mycroft bully him into practicing Latin which Sherlock hated. Anything. If Mycroft would just stay with him.

But before he could-

“Shall I ready your horse, Your Highness?” Captain Lestrade suddenly asked, appearing at Mycroft’s side and Mycroft gave a curt nod.

“Thank you, Captain.” He replied shortly and Lestrade bowed, giving Sherlock a small smile, before loping off to the stables. He’d barely moved away, though, before they heard a quietly furious voice and they both turned, Mycroft raising an incredulous eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon, John?”

“ _I said_ that I think you should be a bit more grateful to Captain Lestrade.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” John thrust his chin out. “He’s a good man, and a good Alpha, and I think you’re very fortunate in your choice of Captain. Not very many men are so loyal.”

“And _you_ think you’re a worthy judge of what makes a ‘good Alpha’?” Mycroft asked, and the question seemed innocent enough, but Sherlock felt something shift in the air between John and his brother- but before he could make out what it was, Mycroft continued. “Thank you for your input, John, but I will remind you that while you are betrothed to my brother, you are not yet King and do not have the authority to tell me how to behave. I will therefore ask you to stay out of my affairs.”

“I’m not telling you how to behave.” John snapped, and Sherlock wondered why they were so angry at each other. “But I do think that you’d treat someone who is in your service- and someone who is so dedicated to you like Captain Lestrade- a bit kinder. Just last night, I ran into him in our wing of the castle. It was past midnight and he was tired and already dressed for bed- but he was concerned enough about you and your safety to leave his comfortable bed and wander the cold corridors just to make sure you were protected. So yes. I think a little gratitude on your part wouldn’t be-“

“He did what?” Mycroft started forward, his expression intense, and John faltered in his tirade.

“What?”

“Captain Lestrade.” Mycroft said agitatedly. “What did you say? What did you say he was doing last night?”

“He…he was in our wing of the castle last night. I literally ran into him in the dark.” John said, confused by Mycroft’s reaction. “Sent me flying actually. Said he was doing a final check on your safety before going to bed himself.”

“He did?”

“Um.” John frowned and looked at Sherlock- then quickly away. “Yes, he did.”

“I see. I wasn’t aware of him doing that.”

“Yes, well. It’s why I said…it’s why I think that since Captain Lestrade is-“

“Please excuse me.” Mycroft didn’t wait for a reply before setting off across the yard, quickly striding through the mass of bodies and horses. Sherlock watched him go, then forced himself to turn to John, butterflies fluttering in his stomach until he thought he would throw up but ready to apologize for everything he’d done, the words already forming on his lips.

John had already gone.

Sherlock drew up short. The sight hurt him more than he’d thought possible. He looked around, darting his eyes around the crowded stable yard, but John was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat before turning and wandering back inside the castle, dragging his feet as he went.

* * *

 

“Captain.”

Greg winced at the sound of Mycroft’s voice before turning around, ready to endure more of his Prince’s silent wrath over Greg’s failure to come to his bedroom last night.

Not that it’d been Greg’s fault.

Running into John Watson in the corridor, in the dark, past midnight, when he had been expecting to spend the night ravishing Mycroft had been the worst sort of punishment. But he hadn’t been able to explain what had happened to Mycroft, and Greg was sure that he was assuming the worst- that Greg had been with another Omega or just hadn’t wanted to see him- and was intent on punishing Greg himself.

But when Greg turned around, it was to find Mycroft beaming shyly up at him, his eyes sparkling with suppressed humor. It was such a welcome, and unexpected sight, that Greg’s knees went weak with relief.

“Prince John has just been telling me that you were very concerned about my safety last night. So concerned, in fact, that you did an extra check in our wing of the castle before bed.”

“Um.” There were too many people around. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching them. It was agony to keep from reaching out and touching Mycroft, pulling him closer, kissing him. It was all Greg had thought about last night, laying awake in bed, cursing John Watson, and imagining Mycroft all alone in his room, waiting for him. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“It must have been quite a shock for you, running into John in the corridor. I’m very lucky to have a Captain who is so wholly dedicated to me.” Mycroft murmured. “I must apologize, Captain, for being impolite to you this morning. It was unforgivable of me, but I thought…well…”

Greg waved his apology aside. “There’s no reason to apologize, Your Highness. You had no way of knowing what happened.”

“Do you plan to repeat your patrol this evening?” Mycroft asked archly, his cheeks going pink and he looked so adorable and young and perfect, standing there teasing him, that Greg would have done anything to have even a minute alone with him.

“I had planned to. That is…if my patrol is…still wanted?”

“Of course it's still wanted. I greatly look forward to it, Captain.” Mycroft darted his eyes to the side and Greg experienced a longing so intense it almost took his breath away.

Thirty seconds. That’s all Greg needed. Please, gods. Just thirty seconds alone with Mycroft.

“I serve at your pleasure, Your Highness.” He managed, and had to literally turn away from the sight of Mycroft’s cheeks turning even pinker because if he stayed and watched, Greg knew he would do something both of them would regret.

Tonight, he told himself, concentrating more than he needed on saddling Mycroft’s horse. Tonight, he would spend tonight with Mycroft. Gods. He didn’t know how he would survive the rest of the day.

* * *

 

For Sherlock, the rest of the day dragged slowly past.

There was nothing for him to do. Nowhere to go. Almost everyone else was on the hunt or having a picnic or swimming in a nearby lake or exploring the town which had put on a carnival and different diversions for the visitors to spend money at. None of which Sherlock could go to, even if he wanted, without John’s permission.

Sherlock was all by himself in the castle.

Mrs. Hudson tried to cheer him up with stories or cards, but it didn’t help. He kept thinking of how he’d behaved ever since John came to Northumbria. The silly things he’d said. The awful things he’d done. The way John was ignoring him because Sherlock had ruined everything.

By midday, Sherlock decided that he’d never been more depressed in his entire life.

He ate lunch in his room with Mrs. Hudson who, between shooting concerned glances at him, kept up a steady stream of chatter to fill the silence.

He took a nap in the late afternoon.

That evening, Sherlock got dressed in his formal clothes and ate dinner with the rest of the Court. Everyone was happy from a day spent outside. The hunt had gone splendidly. Sunburned faces beamed from every corner of the room. Music accompanied the six different courses, loud laughter and voices rang out, and no one seemed to pay much attention to the small, curly-haired boy seated at the head table.

Everyone, Sherlock thought morosely, had better things to do.

There was a dance after dinner and hundreds and hundreds of people packed into the ballroom, dressed in their absolute best, shimmering and glittering, smiling and happy and content. John was the darling of the court. Everyone wanted to talk to him or have a moment of his time, parading themselves or their Omega charges in front of him, bowing and curtseying and jostling for favor.

Sherlock was forgotten in the crush.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains attempted rape and sexual assault between two characters. If you want to skip that, stop reading when Mycroft goes upstairs. I will explain what happens in the notes at the end of this chapter.

John wanted to throw up from nerves.

He swallowed convulsively, trying to get control of himself. He’d never been comfortable in a crowd, being the center of attention, and his head was spinning from the carnival aspect of the ballroom: the music and noise and laughter, the kaleidoscope of faces and perfumes and scents and too much wine.

Much, too much, wine.

He was surrounded on all sides. People jostled to speak to him and he’d been introduced to more people in the last couple of hours than he could ever remember. Few stood out. Faces and names blurred together. All the conversations were frivolous, full of vague nothings. Everyone welcomed him to Northumbria and told him it was an honor to meet him. They wished him well. Invitations were extended to such and such a place to do this or that thing, which John always politely declined.

Omegas were put before him, beaming and blushing and fluttering their eyelashes, and he touched their hands while they blatantly assessed him in a way that would’ve been insulting- if he were allowed to be insulted. But he couldn’t be and didn’t want to offend anyone, and so he smiled politely through it all and when transparent innuendoes flew left and right, John tried to deflect, or just not respond.

He was witty. He demurred.

Inwardly, he wanted to run from the room and find a quiet place to hide for the rest of the evening.

But Lady Cavill, the Lady of Eguisheim, had taken it on herself to introduce John around the ballroom and he’d been with her all evening, her possession of his arm inescapable. She leaned too close to him, the warmth of her body noticeable even in the crush of the crowd and her sweet, floral Omega scent was compelling but underlain with something bitter which kept John on edge.

Or maybe that was just his guilty conscience.

Because while John was being paraded around the ballroom on the arm of an Omega whose scarlet dress’s neckline plunged down so far that the tops of her dusky pink nipples were showing, he knew that Sherlock was somewhere in the crowd. Alone. All by himself. Unable to enjoy himself and dance because he couldn’t, not unless John asked him. Even if he were allowed to dance on his own, John thought, Sherlock’s legs were probably still too sore for him to enjoy it. And that was John’s fault for not taking better care of him. Just like last night at the ceremony.

John tried not to think about it.

It was all he’d thought about all day: Sherlock and his scent and John’s reaction to it, their betrothal and John’s Patronage over him which granted John all sorts of legalities and claims to Sherlock, and what that really meant and what was now expected of John. And the more he’d thought about it, the more unsettled he’d became until, by dinner time, he wanted to climb out of his own skin- or out the nearest window and run as far away as he could, all the way back to Scotland-

“You seem distracted, darling John.” Lady Cavill recalled his attention. “Am I tiring you?”

“No, no. Not at all. Sorry.” John gave her a forced smile. “Forgive me.”

“I hope I am not tiring you.” Lady Cavill coyly continued, her red lips curving up in a pretty arc. “I would think an Alpha as young and masculine as yourself would have very good stamina.” She squeezed at his arm, kneading at the muscle in a way that made John uncomfortable.

“Um.” He chuckled to hide his confusion and looked away. He didn’t know what to say. She’d been saying things like that to him all evening, and he’d ignored them for the most part but, as the evening wore on and they each had more wine, she was becoming more obvious in her attempts.

Lady Cavill was pretty, John supposed as they continued their route around the ballroom, speaking to a few more people. She was young. Her husband was much older and theirs was obviously an arranged marriage. Not uncommon, John thought, remembering his own betrothal. Lady Cavill’s interest in him was palpable and it was rather flattering to be wanted by such an attractive Omega.

But John thought longingly of his clandestine dinner with Sherlock in the hallway at the palace at Marseille during the ball to celebrate their betrothal. He darted his eyes around the room, searching for the familiar mop of curly black hair. He’d much rather have that, he admitted, a thrown-together meal of cold meats and bread sat on the stone floor with Sherlock than having his way with a comely Omega in some darkened bedroom.

Besides, John knew not to be too flattered by her interest. It wasn’t him that she was interested in anyway. He knew how political machinations worked. They were rife in his father’s Court. He was now betrothed to the Crown Prince of Northumbria, slated to one day be King, and it made sense for Lady Cavill to want to have sex with him: curry his favor now, win him to her side, and then reap the benefits in later years. Or maybe have the future King’s bastard child and receive enormous monetary inducements to keep her mouth shut.

John sighed, feeling a headache starting behind his eyes. He was so tired of this, of doubting everything and second-guessing what was being said or done to him, always looking for the hidden motive. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to do that so much when he arrived in Northumbria, but he was realizing that’d been foolishly naive.

“Where is your lovely betrothed this evening?” Lady Cavill asked, steering John away from a group of clustered Omegas who were blatantly eyeing him and giggling.

“I’m not sure…but I know that he is enjoying the festivities, Lady Cavill, for which we both sincerely thank you.” There. John was rather proud of himself for that statement. There was nothing aberrant in that and no hidden meanings.

“It was my _pleasure_ , John.” She drew closer to him and the soft swell of her partially exposed breasts brushed against his arm. John could feel his cheeks heating. “I only wish the poor little thing had enjoyed himself at the welcoming ceremony yesterday evening just as well. I had hoped everyone would find it diverting but…alas. Tell me, John,” She said earnestly, “what did _you_ think of the fertility statue?”

That it was a fucking stupid present, was John’s first thought. That she should’ve known better than to give him and Sherlock something like that, was his second. That ever since he’d found out it’d been her idea he’d hated her, just a little, was his third. He knew he couldn’t say any of that though. His head gave another throb, presages of more pain to come.

“It was…surprising.” He didn’t know that he’d said anything remarkable but Lady Cavill’s eyebrows went up, her eyes widening with disbelief.

“You found it _surprising_?” She repeated. “But John…No. No, I don’t believe…” She pressed even closer to him, lowering her voice to an intimate whisper that crawled down John’s spine, breathy was promise, and made him want to shudder. “You don’t mean to tell me that you are as innocent as your little betrothed? That you are a stranger to the ways of Alpha and Omega: the pull of flesh on flesh and the intoxication of heat?”

John knew he was blushing now. He could feel it- his whole body going hot in one swoop. Not because of her question- which was mortifying- but he could also feel her against him. The line of her body was pressed all along his side. Warm. Soft. He could smell her scent.

“No.” He managed, rigid with discomfort. “No. That wasn’t what I meant.” Lady Cavill laughed, soft in his ear, a sound meant just for him, and squeezed John’s arm again.

“Of course not. I wouldn’t have believed that you were virginal, John. Not an Alpha as handsome as you. You must have left many broken hearts behind in Scotland, yes? And I’m sure you’ve had your pick of Omegas since coming to Northumbria.”

“Not exactly.” John stared straight ahead, and Lady Cavill laughed again, a sultry, low sound which, without John’s consent, tugged at something low in the pit of his stomach.

“Tell me, darling John…what did you think of my statue? Did it move you?”

“I don’t understand…”

Lady Cavill’s eyes sparkled. She licked her lips and John’s eyes took in the movement, her pink tongue darting out wetly, before he quickly looked away, his ears burning. “Since you know of the immense pleasure to be had between the joining of Alpha and Omega, the rush of your blood and the pounding of your heart while you take what is offered…did seeing the statue stir that same passion within you? The longing to rut? To _fuck_ a wet,” She almost moaned the word in his ear, “and willing partner? Until both of you reach the peak of ecstasy?”

Fuck.

John clenched his jaw. He couldn’t believe that Lady Cavill was saying these things to him. In the middle of the ballroom. Surrounded by hundreds of people. He was furious. Mortified. And strangely aroused.

Lady Cavill was so close to him. Her voice caught in all the right ways. Breathy. Provoking. They were pressed together in the chaos of the ballroom and it’d been ages since John had been that close to someone. Not since shortly after the betrothal papers were signed in Scotland, when he’d made a promise to honor the spirit, as well as the intent, of the union.

And John felt guilty even admitting this to himself…but before Sherlock had fainted last night, he _had_ been moved by the statue. He’d never seen anything like it.

There’d been a book in his father’s study, full of drawings showing Alphas and Omegas, which John had poured over for hours at a time, his heart hammering in his chest and a growing tightness low in his pelvis, between his thighs where his cock felt so heavy and full.

But those had just been illustrations. Lines on a page.

The fertility statue had been vivid. _Real_. There’d been movement to the entwined bodies. The expressions on their faces alone were enough to make John shiver with longing over the memories they provoked, reminding him of what he wanted, what he missed…

He’d tried not to think about the statue, though, after Sherlock fainted. It made him feel wrong and sickeningly hollow for reasons he refused to examine further than just knowing he was disgusted with himself for being aroused by something which had terrified Sherlock. Even when he knew Sherlock had faked his faint, it didn’t change the way he felt. He knew Stamford had retrieved the statue last night after everything settled down and that it was currently somewhere in his rooms, but John hadn’t gone looking for it.

“I think it _did_ move you.” Lady Cavill said softly when John didn’t reply. “I think it stirred that yearning within you. I was watching you. I saw your face…and what a pity it was that your little betrothed had the complete opposite reaction. Fainting at the prospect of what he doesn’t even understand.” She sighed. “How frustrating it must have been for you, even more so when you realized that frustration will last for years. Yes? Your sleep, I know, must have been restless.”

“No, it wasn’t.” John said tightly. He’d had enough of Lady Cavill, her conversation, and thinking about these things. He didn’t want to deal with any of it. He was tired. His head hurt. He started to gently extract his arm from her grasp. “Lady Cavill-“

“Margaret.”

“What?”

“My name is Margaret. There’s no need for silly formalities between us, John. I have the feeling that you and I will become very… _close_.” She let John go, trailing her hand over his arm as she did. “I would alleviate any of your frustrations, darling John. Happily.”

“Thank you.” John stammered, then winced at the gauche awkwardness of it. “But no. No thank you, Lady Cavill. That’s…Please, excuse me.” He sketched a quick bow, drawing up short when Lady Cavill extended her hand to be kissed. He almost didn’t take it, but he knew that would be rude, and so brushed his lips chastely over the back of her hand.

“Forgive me for being so forward. It’s only…” She cast her eyes down, turning her hand over so she was holding John’s, her soft palm against his. John wanted to let go. “My husband is unable to satisfy me. He is…unable to perform.” She made a passable attempt at looking like a shy Omega. It didn’t work very well. John narrowed his eyes. “And I feel like there must be more to lovemaking than what I’ve…it’s why that statue…it’s why I knew that you would understand.” She implored in a halting, timid voice. “And I’ve never felt so drawn to an Alpha before as I am to you. It’s…I don’t understand it. Really.” She took a deep, tremulous breath, gripping John’s hand. “But you could show me. Yes? No one would have to know, John. I can be very, very discreet. And I’m not so innocent that I don’t know that Alpha isn’t meant to be alone. You have needs which must be attended to…properly.”

She smiled sweetly, holding John’s gaze, and squeezed his hand earnestly before turning away.

“Please forgive me for being so forward…Think about it, darling John. I know you would be a worthy Alpha.”

John watched her go, sashaying through the crowd, her head held high and red dress like a flame, and shook himself. He darted his eyes around to see if anyone had noticed their exchange. People were staring at him, but they’d been doing that all evening. John didn’t think there was anything accusatory in their expressions. It felt as if his conversation with Lady Cavill had lasted ages, but it’d only been a minute.

Maybe no one had noticed.

As more people converged, intent on making introductions, John groaned, wanting the night to be over. He realized, as he strained to smile, his headache picking up in intensity, that he’d never been so unhappy in his whole life. Nothing was alright and, as he finally caught sight of Sherlock across the room, standing all by himself while people whirled around him, it didn’t seem like it ever would be.

Their eyes met.

John felt the electric shock of it all the way down to his toes and prayed to every god he knew that Sherlock hadn’t seen his conversation with Lady Cavill.

He had the horrible feeling, though, that he had.

* * *

Mycroft left the ballroom as soon as he was able and moved with alacrity, hurrying up the flights of stairs to his bedroom, infused with the thrill of sneaking away from the ball and meeting for a rendezvous with Gregory. He didn’t pass anyone on his way up. Everyone was downstairs, drinking and dancing, and Mycroft was incredibly grateful to Lord and Lady Cavill for arranging so many diversions to keep everyone occupied.

His breath came faster as he pushed himself, his steps quickening, and he almost tripped up the last few steps as he gained the upper landing. He’d been looking forward to this all day and he was excited. He and Gregory hadn’t had a chance to be alone together, uninhibited, in over two weeks. But tonight, they would be. No interruptions. No one to bother them. No one nearby to overhear their coupling. Mycroft was already half-aroused just by the thought alone, conjuring up memories of being taken by Gregory, of being pounded into in the roughly sweet way Gregory had which left Mycroft satisfied and sore.

He turned the corner-

And skidded to a halt in the middle of the hallway, his heart plummeting.

“Good evening, sweetheart.” The Duke of Lennox pushed away from the wall against which he’d been leaning and gave Mycroft a slow, knowing smile, eyes indolently tracing up and down his body. “You look ravishing this evening.”

Mycroft kept his expression bland. Awareness of the danger he was in flooded through his system, leaving his ears ringing. “What are you doing here, Your Grace?”

“What do you mean- what am I doing here? I’m staying here. My bedroom’s just the next hall over…but you knew that.” He chided. “It’s torture to know that you and I are so close together and yet…so far apart.”

He was alone with Lennox. There was no one else nearby. Everyone was downstairs, a fact he’d been celebrating only seconds ago. And Gregory was not supposed to follow him for another fifteen minutes.

“What I meant was why aren’t you downstairs with everyone else, Your Grace?” Mycroft quickly assessed the situation. It was not good. While a part of him refused to believe that Lennox would actually accost him, another, more rational part of him knew he was at risk. Lennox stood between Mycroft and the safety of his bedroom. Mycroft couldn’t move closer to Lennox without putting himself within reach. The safest option was to go back downstairs. It meant giving up on his idyll with Gregory but…

As Lennox’s smile widened, turning predatory, Mycroft knew he had no other options.

“I confess, sweetheart, that I had an uncanny suspicion I may find you here during the ball.” Lennox strode closer, his boots quiet on the stone floor, and Mycroft forced himself to stand his ground. He wouldn’t allow Lennox to scare him. “I thought that you may perhaps sneak away early, and the opportunity was too irresistible to pass up.”

“The opportunity?” Mycroft asked- but he’d barely spoken the words before Lennox lunged.

Mycroft tried to shout but all the breath was driven from his lungs as Lennox pushed him backward against the wall, swallowing up his feeble attempt by smashing his lips against Mycroft’s with rushed brutality. Mycroft struggled. He bucked against Lennox, shoving at him, trying to throw him off, but Lennox was implacable. The line of his body was hard against Mycroft’s, solid with muscles, and Mycroft experienced a flash of panic that he wouldn’t be able to get away- before gripping a fistful of Lennox’s hair and pulling as hard as he could. Lennox growled against his lips, insinuating himself between Mycroft’s legs and grinding against him.

He was hard.

Revolted, Mycroft wanted to gag. He couldn’t draw enough air. His breaths were panted, strained from the exertion of fighting. Lennox gripped Mycroft’s chin in his hand to keep his head turned into the kiss and he held Mycroft’s other hand in an implacable grip, crushing the bones in his wrist together. Mycroft twisted, the places where he was held points of pain, but he struggled, and Lennox’s grip slipped-

Mycroft exploded into action, knees and elbows flying. There was a quick tussle- a muted cry- Lennox snarled- then Mycroft was forced back against the wall, both of his hands now held above his head. Lennox’s legs spread between his own, throwing him off-balance, making struggling impossible. Lennox laughed, breathless after their struggle, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Fight all you want, sweetheart. Please. I enjoy it. One passion feeds another. It will make it so much better when you finally surrender.”

“I am not going to surrender.” Mycroft reached for his icy, controlled calm and hated the way he failed. His voice shook, betraying him. Lennox’s eyes traced down his face.

“Yes, you will, Mycroft. Trust me. You’ll _want_ to surrender. I told you: I’ll teach you pleasures no one ever has before. Pleasures you didn’t even know existed.”

“I doubt that, Your Grace.” Mycroft let his voice shake as much as it wanted. That didn’t matter. He refused to be cowed into silence. “You aren’t Alpha enough.”

Mycroft knew he’d gone too far. Lennox’s eyes flashed with anger. His hands tightened around Mycroft’s wrists until he wanted to whimper, unable to mask his wince of pain. “You won’t say that when I have you beneath me, when my cock’s in you and I’m fucking you senseless.”

“I’ll scream.” Mycroft threatened. Lennox laughed at him.

“Go right ahead, sweetheart. Scream. Who is close by? Who will hear you?”

No one. They both knew that no one was close.

“You’d enjoy this, Mycroft, if you would just allow yourself to.” Lennox slanted his head and pressed kisses up the side of Mycroft’s neck, nibbling at his earlobe. Mycroft turned his face to the side, disgusted. He felt the wet squirm of Lennox’s tongue against his pulse and shuddered. “Yes, Mycroft. That’s it.” Lennox murmured, mistaking his reaction as enjoyment. He nuzzled at the side of Mycroft’s face, kissing his cheek with insincere tenderness. “Just give in. I promise that you’ll enjoy it.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Stop it.”

“We won’t tell anyone. No one will ever know.” Lennox cooed, rocking himself against Mycroft. His erection dug into Mycroft’s hip.

“We won’t tell anyone because nothing will happen. You’re going to let me go-“

“I’ll make you come so hard. I’ll prove that I’m Alpha enough for you. You’ll never think of coming for anyone else, ever again.”

“Let me go.”

“Oh, Mycroft.” Lennox sighed, sounding disappointed, and for a second Mycroft thought the Alpha would actually let him go, that he was genuinely going to give up at Mycroft’s refusal.

He was wrong.

Lennox swooped forward and tried to kiss him. Mycroft jerked his head away, inadvertently knocking it against the stone. He hissed, and Lennox took it as an opportunity to latch onto his neck, sucking.

“Why do you always have on so many clothes?” He asked, transferring Mycroft’s wrists to one hand and then using his free one to tug at Mycroft’s high collar, revealing more of his neck to kiss. “These need to be gone. I want to see you…”

Sick fear blended with anxiety in Mycroft’s gut. His wax patches were still covering his scent glands, but if Lennox managed to undo his clothes…if he managed to progress…

“Stop this right now, Your Grace, and let me go.” Mycroft commanded, but it sounded weak and Lennox carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I will have you arrested.”

“Mm. What else will you do to me?” Lennox frotted against him, moaning in Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft twisted, trying to throw him off, but it only pushed their bodies closer. Lennox moaned, his eyes fluttering closed. “I knew you would be perfect at this.”

Lennox abandoned Mycroft’s collar and gripped at his chin again, forcing Mycroft into another unforgiving kiss.

“You don’t know what it can be like. You’re so inexperienced…but I’ll show you. I can be patient, sweetheart, and you deserve that. We’ll go to your room. Alright? I would never take you in such a public place, on a rough floor. Oh, no. You deserve the best, sweetheart, and that’s what I’d give you. I’ll take your clothes off. Kiss every place that gives you pleasure. I’ll suck your pretty cock. Has anyone ever done that to you before? I bet they haven’t. I’ll lick your tight hole, make you so desperate that you’ll beg for me to fuck you. And I will, Mycroft. I’ll go slow. I’ll be so gentle with you…nothing will hurt…it will be only pleasure…”

Lennox pressed their lips together again in a mockery of a kiss and Mycroft felt tears spring to his eyes. He felt so useless. So stupid. He couldn’t even get away and he should have listened to Gregory when he tried to teach him hand-to-hand combat but he’d been stupid then too and hadn’t wanted to listen and now-

Mycroft cried out in pain, Lennox nipping at his lower lip, a hard, sharp sting.

“Oh, gods, yes.” Lennox breathed against his mouth. “Let me hear you-“

Lennox was ripped away from Mycroft and sent flying backward. Mycroft stumbled, his knees too weak to support him, and watched, numb with shock, as Gregory threw Lennox against the opposite wall, following after him with clenched fists. Mycroft sank down to the floor, landing on his butt with a plop.

“Mycroft? Are you alright?” Gregory was suddenly on his knees in front of him, gently cradling Mycroft’s face. He looked so concerned, and Mycroft blinked at him. He didn’t know what to say.

Yes, he supposed he was alright. It was over now. Gregory wouldn’t let Lennox hurt him. His mouth hurt, though and Mycroft touched a shaking hand to his lip and then stared at it dumbly when it came away smeared with blood. He stared at the smear of red, trying to connect it to what had happened. He looked up at Gregory, confused, and saw the exact moment Gregory decided to kill Lennox.

That wasn’t a good idea. There were all sorts of reasons why. Mycroft couldn’t think of a single one of them at the moment. But he knew, he somehow knew, he couldn’t let Gregory do that.

“Please help me up.” He asked in a whisper, ashamed he needed assistance, but his legs felt wobbly. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do it himself. Gregory lifted him, supporting Mycroft like he was made of glass and placing him on his feet, but Mycroft kept a grip on his arm, feeling very unsteady. Lennox was hunched over near the wall opposite, cradling his ribs, glaring daggers at Gregory.

“You are banished from Northumbria, Your Grace.” Mycroft declared. “Pack your things this instant and be gone before dawn. If you do not, I will have the guards arrest you and charge you for harming me.”

A very ugly look crossed Lennox’s face, but it was there and gone, quickly smoothed away with a smile.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Lennox bowed his head, looking contrite, but his eyes sparkled with mischief as he slowly straightened. “I will do as you say. I would never dream of disobeying you…but that unfortunately does mean that I will have to inform the Queen of your very disagreeable connection with your Captain of the Guard.”

Too much had happened and Mycroft no longer had control of his emotions. He couldn’t mask his shock, all the blood draining from his face.

“I don’t know what you mean.” The words came out oddly, his lips numb.

“Oh, sweetheart. Let’s not have secrets between us.” Lennox derisively scolded. “I’ll admit that I wasn’t entirely certain of your connection…until I happened to witness your illustrious, well-respected Captain Lestrade mounting you in the stables and fucking you like a stallion with a prize mare.”

Mycroft shook his head in mute denial. Beside him, Gregory had gone tense. Fury radiated off him in waves.

“What is it he says? That little trite saying before he leaves? He serves at your pleasure?” Lennox snickered. “I daresay he’s instrumental to it. And what a stirring display of competence it was.” Lennox sneered, lewdly rubbing at the front of his trousers.

Gregory started toward him with a snarl, but Mycroft held him back. He knew where this was going.

“I imagine the Queen will be very disappointed to learn that her eldest son has been allowing his Alpha Captain to fuck him…”

He let the word lay in the quiet of the hallway, giving Mycroft time to contemplate the horrific ramifications.

“ _However_ …if I am allowed to stay for the rest of the Royal Tour…” He trailed off suggestively and Mycroft knew he was trapped. “I have a familial obligation, after all. I want to ensure my nephew’s happiness in his betrothal.”

He could refuse. Banish Lennox. Call his bluff. Nothing would happen. Lennox had no proof.

He could refuse. Banish Lennox. Call his bluff. Lennox could tell the Queen what he knew, what he had seen.

The Queen would believe him. After what had happened during Mycroft’s heat, she was ready to believe Lennox. Panicked, Mycroft’s heart fluttered beneath his ribs. She would dismiss Gregory as Captain of the Guard. She would send him away. Mycroft would never see him again. Ever. He would never be held again. Never kissed. Never made to feel the way Gregory made him feel: safe and wanted and cared for.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Mycroft didn’t recognize his own voice, the tones too dull. He couldn’t believe what he was agreeing to-

But he didn’t want to lose Gregory. Gregory, who turned to him in horror.

“ _Mycroft_ -“

“We have an agreement, Your Grace.” Mycroft repeated firmly. He’d never felt more like a coward.

“I thought we would. Good evening, Captain Lestrade. Prince Mycroft. Thank you for a very enjoyable time.” Lennox gave a mocking bow, smirking, and they watched him go until his footsteps faded away and the two of them stood in silence thick enough to choke on.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Mycroft said into the quiet. He hated admitting defeat, but it was pointless to pretend otherwise.

“No. Mycroft. There has to be-“

“There’s nothing I can do, Gregory.” Mycroft repeated. “My mother already suspects…” He shook his head and started down the hall on wooden legs, Gregory trailing along behind him. When they were safely ensconced in his bedroom, Mycroft sank down onto the side of his bed, exhausted.

“Please believe me when I tell you that my mother will believe him.” He explained. “No matter what he says. If she knows about our connection, she will remove you as Captain of the Guard and…send you away. After that, I doubt we would see each other again.”

Gregory didn’t say anything and the carpet blurred in front of Mycroft. He scrubbed at his eyes, feeling uncomfortable and fragile and silly.

“Let me see?”

“See what?”

Gregory’s fingers hooked beneath Mycroft’s chin and gently tilted his head up. His fingers traced over Mycroft’s lips, brows drawing together when he saw the raw place, the little bruises scattered over his jaw. “Are you alright?”

No.

“Yes, I’m alright.”

Gregory didn’t look like he believed him. “I want to kill him for hurting you.”

“I know.” Mycroft murmured. There was nothing more to say. “I am sorry about our evening.”

“Mycroft…you don’t have to…There’s nothing for you to apologize for. It’s that bastard who should…” Gregory broke off, furious, but his touch remained gentle over Mycroft’s face. Mycroft wanted to lean into it.

“I know, but…I am sorry that we’re in this situation. That you can’t do anything. I know you must despise feeling powerless. I am sorry that-“

“Please.” Gregory placed his fingers over Mycroft’s lips, carefully avoiding where Lennox had bit at him. “Stop apologizing.”

“Very well.” The idea of kissing Gregory’s fingers flitted through Mycroft’s mind, but he dismissed it. He supposed now was not the time. Doubtless their entire evening was ruined. “I understand if you would rather not…but…will you stay with me tonight? Please?”

Gregory paused and it felt like the longest few seconds of Mycroft’s life. “Of course I will.”

Relief was sweet, but Mycroft couldn’t be fully happy, too worried about everything, about why Gregory had hesitated. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to _thank_ me, Mycroft-“

“I would like to bathe first.” Mycroft admitted. He couldn’t stand to have Lennox’s scent on him another minute. He didn’t think Gregory would appreciate it either.

“Alright.”

He thought about asking for a kiss. He certainly saw Gregory’s eyes flick down to his mouth as if he were thinking the same thing- but the Alpha moved away before Mycroft could say anything and he felt bereft without his touch.

* * *

Greg hid in the closet while the maids bustled in and out of Mycroft’s room, filling the large tub in the corner with buckets of steaming water. It took a long time, long enough for Greg to calm his racing heart and for the adrenaline to wear off, leaving him on edge. He still wanted to stride out of the room, find the Duke of Lennox, and kill him. He didn’t even want to waste time with niceties like punching him in the face first or beating him senseless. No. He wanted to kill him for daring to touch Mycroft, for hurting him, forcing himself on him. He wanted to run the bastard through with his sword and watch him bleed, watch the life drain from his eyes.

Greg took a deep, deep, deep breath. He couldn’t do any of that.

Gods. It was literally _painful_ to know what Lennox had done, to have seen it with his own eyes, and not be able to do anything. He didn’t want to put Mycroft in danger, though, and after Lennox’s threats, and Mycroft’s acknowledgement that the Alpha had the upper hand, Greg wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize things.

He reclined against the far wall of the closet, the chatter of the maids filtering through the door, and closed his eyes- but that was a mistake because all he saw behind his eyelids was Mycroft pressed against the wall, struggling against Lennox and Lennox’s mocking laughter-

He was dead, Greg vowed to himself. Lennox was dead. He just didn’t know it yet. Maybe not tonight. Or tomorrow. But one day. Greg was going to kill him. He was a dead man walking.

“Gregory?” Greg opened his eyes to find Mycroft standing in the entrance to the closet. The room behind him was darkened, the flickering lights of candles casting long shadows on the walls. “They’re all gone. If you’d like to come out?”

The steaming tub of water, giving off a rich, perfumed scent sat in the corner behind a privacy screen and plush, light-colored towels were stacked nearby. Candles, lit strategically around the room, gave the illusion of intimacy and one of the maids had even turned down Mycroft’s bed, the duvet thrown back revealing sheets which were crisp and white and fresh. It was a scene set for seduction.

Greg had never felt less like having sex in his whole life.

But he didn’t want to leave. That was out of the question. He didn’t want to let Mycroft out of his sight. If Mycroft hadn’t asked him to stay, Greg would’ve been willing to beg. But Mycroft _had asked_ him to stay. So here is where Greg would be. For as long as he could, anyway.

“Gregory?” Mycroft reached for Greg’s hands, giving him a shy look before placing them on the front of his tunic. “Will you please help me undress?”

Undressing Mycroft was something Greg not-so-secretly loved. It was time-consuming and tedious and there were so many gods damn laces it was ridiculous. But it made things so much better: getting to reveal Mycroft’s skin bit by bit by bit, kissing each new little piece, until he finally had a beautifully naked Mycroft in his arms, blushing and aroused. It made all the work very much worth it.

Tonight, though, after everything that had happened, he didn’t think Mycroft would want any of that. He’d asked Greg to stay with him and help him undress so he could bathe, not have sex with him or try and seduce him.

So Greg bent his head and set to work on the laces, sliding them free from the eyelets one at a time, perfunctory and efficient. He worked quickly, moving from one arm to the next, then each leg, and, since he didn’t linger, had Mycroft undressed in record time. He tried not to look, tried to be respectful, but he couldn’t help sneaking glances at all the exposed skin which he hadn’t seen in weeks and which he wanted nothing more than to kiss and scent at. He wanted to hold Mycroft and touch him everywhere. It was a compulsion. A driving need. Greg shuddered and stepped away.

“There.” He expected Mycroft to send him away while he bathed (and Greg couldn’t wait for him to be rid of Lennox’s scent which was literally all over him) and was surprised when Mycroft reached for the fastening on his own clothes.

“May I?” He asked playfully, plucking at the buttons and giving Greg a small smile.

“If- if you want.” Greg’s heart skipped a few beats- then a few more when Mycroft’s face fell, his hands falling away.

“Oh. That’s…I thought you…” He cast his eyes down, looking so dejected, and Greg realized he’d entirely misread the situation.

Slowly, making sure Mycroft knew what he was doing, Greg skimmed his hands up along Mycroft’s bare sides, over his ribs, watching in fascination as his skin broke out in goosebumps and he felt him shiver, his breath catching. “Let me rephrase that. I would very much like you to undress me, Mycroft...so long that is what you want too.”

“Oh.” Mycroft said again, the color rising in his cheeks when Greg’s hands moved back down to settle on his hips, and Greg didn’t even have to look to know that Mycroft was getting hard. His throat went dry and when Mycroft stepped closer, reaching for the fasteners of his clothes again, he was abruptly very glad that Mycroft wasn’t sending him away while he bathed.

* * *

It took some maneuvering, but they were finally both settled in the tub: Greg sat with his back propped against the side and Mycroft laying between his spread legs, leaning against Greg’s chest. It was pleasant and warm and Mycroft only offered a token protest when Greg took over the duties of washing him.

“I am capable of doing this myself.” He grumbled as Greg used a scentless soap to scrub at Mycroft’s hair, but he was smiling when he said it and Greg could hear the happiness in his voice.

“Maybe you can give me a demonstration some time.”

Mycroft snorted, but he let Greg dote on him, growing more relaxed by the minute and Greg swept his hands over Mycroft’s body, petting at him even after he was done, but keeping his touches light and chaste, not sure how far Mycroft wanted him to go.

That became obvious a few minutes later when Mycroft caught Greg’s hand where it had been kneading at his hip and guided it down further, between his legs and to where his cock was soft and chubby.

Greg took a deep breath. His eager mood from earlier was gone and it would’ve been all the same to him if they didn’t have sex. He was surprised that Mycroft wanted it either. But he was blushing, asking Greg to pleasure him, and Greg was pretty sure that was a request he would always be helpless to refuse.

Greg kissed at the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, avoiding the raw place, and then dotted kisses along the bruised patches of skin along his jaw. He hated the sight of them and the anger, when it came this time, hurt. But Mycroft turned his head, capturing Greg’s lips in a kiss, his breath hitching when their lips met, and Greg couldn’t help chuckling, smiling, warmth spreading through his chest and driving the hurt away.

Gods, I love you.

He thought they would do it this way. They wouldn’t have to move or even get out of the bath which was still warm. He teased his fingers over Mycroft’s cock, not wrapping his hand around it just yet, and thumbed over his nipples, rubbing at them until they were stiff peaks and Mycroft was arching up out of the water, pressing his chest up for more of Greg’s touch. Breathless moans escaped from his lips that Greg suddenly wanted to taste and his cock twitched, filling sluggishly the more Mycroft writhed.

Greg buried his face in Mycroft’s neck, scenting at the jointure where shoulder met neck.

“Oh- Please, Gregory.” Mycroft gasped- and suddenly Greg was completely, _achingly_ hard, his cock throbbing. He groaned, scraping his teeth over Mycroft’s skin, and Mycroft gasped again, going rigid.

Greg pulled away, an apology on the tip of his tongue-

“No, please! Gregory.” Mycroft reached back and tugged at Greg’s hair, pulling his face back to his neck. “That. Will you? Please?”

“Mycroft…” Greg was torn. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even really know exactly what Mycroft was asking him for…although he had a good idea.

“You can. I- I want you to.”

“Mycroft- I don’t…can…can I-“ He moved his hand back, fingers skating over Mycroft’s hole. Mycroft trembled, pushing back against him.

“Yes! Yes, you- yes, please, Gregory.”

Greg sank further down in the water, and after some awkward maneuvering, Mycroft slippery on top of him and Greg’s fingers feeling too big as he fumbled around in the water, they both gasped when his cock sank into Mycroft’s body. Mycroft rested his head alongside Greg’s on the rim of the tub, his back arched to keep their bodies aligned and make it easier to keep Greg inside him.

It wasn’t easy but neither wanted to stop and separate and get out of the tub and so Greg gripped at Mycroft’s hips, raising and lowering him on his cock, thrusting up as he did. The water sloshed against the sides, spilling over in wet splashes onto the stone floor around them. His muscles burned, a pleasant ache that pooled and moved through him, settling in his groin. It’d been too long since they’d been together like this and the pleasure burned in Greg’s veins, a fire that couldn’t be dampened by anything. He refused to think of anything except Mycroft and the way he felt against him, the way Greg felt inside him, the kisses he was giving him and scenting at him while Mycroft gasped and arched and moaned. Every little sound Mycroft made sent a tremor through him.

Greg mouthed at his neck, kissing his jaw and every part of him he could reach, until Mycroft’s fingers were tangling in his hair again, voice unsteady as he pleaded.

“Please will you? Gregory? Please?”

Greg huffed, fingers digging into Mycroft’s hips, adjusting his grip so he could better thrust. Harder and quicker. He could feel Mycroft shaking, knew he was getting close. His own orgasm was right there, just out of reach.

“Gregory? Please?”

He really shouldn’t. It was a bad idea.

But Mycroft was asking him. _Begging_.

Greg closed his eyes, desire welling up in his chest, thick enough to choke on, and reminded himself that there were so many reasons why it wasn’t a good idea. Why it was actually a colossally bad idea.

He could, though, Greg argued with himself. It wouldn’t even matter. Not really. Bonds couldn’t be formed unless an Omega was in heat, and even then it had to be done during the first knotting or it wouldn’t take. If Greg bit Mycroft now, all it would be was a mark of claiming. An obvious sign that this Omega was his.

Which wasn’t true.

But Greg wanted it to be true. Especially after earlier.

They should talk about it first. Asking for something in the heat of the moment didn’t always mean that was what was wanted. Mycroft was in a delicate state. He was vulnerable.

But Greg could fix it. He knew he could. An Alpha’s bite was known to calm an Omega, releasing a flood of hormones and soothing emotions-

“Gregory…” Mycroft panted, angling his hips. Greg felt his hole flutter around his cock, his orgasm close. “Please, will you…please…?”

He didn’t have to bite deep, Greg thought, dragging his lips up the curve of Mycroft’s neck, then further back to where his scent was stronger.

“Please…”

Just a little pressure. Something gentle. If he did it right, he wouldn’t even leave a mark.

“Gregory…I’m-“ Mycroft body went rigid, tightening as his pleasure peaked. “Oh, gods…please, _please_ -“

Greg experienced a flash of anxiety as he parted his lips over Mycroft’s scent gland, teeth barely grazing his skin-

Mycroft sobbed-

Greg bit down.

* * *

Mycroft’s recollection of getting out of the tub was fuzzy. He barely remembered Gregory helping him out of the water, of being carried over the slippery puddles on the floor, and then perfunctorily toweled off before the sheets were being pulled over him. His eyelids felt as if they weighed a ton and he could barely keep them open. Moving took effort and so he didn’t try, letting the bed cradle him.

The mattress dipped and swayed. Mycroft made an enquiring noise, peeling his eyes open with considerable effort. Gregory’s face swam into view, his brow creased in worry.

“Are you alright?” Mycroft’s tongue was thick and unwieldy. He didn’t think he was enunciating properly. He felt drunk. Gregory chuckled, smiling. He brushed Mycroft’s still damp hair back from his forehead, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. Mycroft hummed happily.

“Yeah, I’m alright. It’s you that…how are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Mycroft let his eyes slip closed again. It was too hard to keep them open. His entire body was replete. He didn’t think he’d ever come so hard before in his life. “I’m very fine. You always take good care of me, Gregory…”

For that, Mycroft received another kiss. He was glad he’d said it.

“I try.” Gregory said. His fingers ran along Mycroft’s jaw before slipping down to his neck, caressing one particular spot near his nape over and over. It was soothing. Mycroft melted onto the mattress with a happy moan.

“I know you try. Even when I make it difficult for you.” The mattress dipped and swayed again while Gregory rearranged himself, stretching out and pulling Mycroft into his arms. He was naked which was very lovely and Mycroft settled against him with another sigh, burrowing his face into Gregory’s chest. “It’s one of the reasons why I love you so much.”

Gregory’s fingers froze against Mycroft’s neck, but Mycroft, caught in the haze of satisfaction, didn’t have time to worry about it. He was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Duke of Lennox finds Mycroft alone upstairs and tries to seduce him. When Mycroft says no, he decides to force him into a sexual situation. Greg finds them and throws Lennox away from him, then Lennox blackmails Mycroft with his connection with Greg so he can stay in Northumbria and not be banished for what he's done.
> 
> And thanks to Purrfectlmt for Lennox's "I daresay he's instrumental to it" comment. She gave me that line and it was too delicious not to use!


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Lennox becomes a total creeper in this chapter. The particular scene happens after the cut scene when he decides what exactly he will do to get his revenge. Which involves Sherlock. So if you want to skip that part, I understand. I can explain what happens if you'd rather not read it if you'll just drop me a comment or a message over on the Tumblr.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: No actual harm will come to Sherlock. I will not be writing child molestation or anything of the sort. Lennox will have this conversation with Sherlock but NOTHING will be happening.

Mycroft moved through his morning routine with calm and detached aplomb.

He woke alone, the covers beside him rumpled and saturated in scent but cold, the other occupant gone with the dawn’s first light. That was to be expected but Mycroft still stared at the other side for a long time, remembering the events of the previous evening and getting more and more anxious by the minute until every breath was a sharp pant, his lungs constricted with fear.

He didn’t know how he’d ever be able to face Gregory again.

Childishly, Mycroft thought about pulling the covers up and over his head, hiding away, and staying in bed all day. He’d fake a sickness so that he’d be left alone. He could pretend that the days of travel had been too much for him and that he needed a rest. It was such a tempting idea, made all the more attractive because it meant he could delay seeing Gregory for another day.

Maybe, Mycroft thought, by the time he “recovered” Gregory would have forgotten about the whole thing or, even if he didn’t forget, perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so put out with Mycroft and would be willing to forgive and forget and they could carry on as they had been.

Mycroft toyed with the edge of his pillow, giving the option considerable thought.

But eventually the sunshine was piercing through the drapes, stinging his eyes, and the demands of his body compelled him to get up. Sighing with resignation, he pushed his emotions aside, strictly not allowing himself to feel anything as he prepared for the day.

He washed his face, flinching when his fingers rubbed at the bruises littered over his jaw, but he didn’t let himself remember why the bruises were there. His neck hurt too, and was stiff, but he didn’t let himself remember the reason for that either. As he toweled off, he avoided his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t ready to see. Not yet.

He focused all of his attention on getting dressed.

He chose his clothes with meticulous care, pairing the fabrics of his undershirt and tunic and trousers and boots. Lacing up his trousers took time and Mycroft tarried, making the distraction last. He lost himself in the calming, predictable swish of laces moving through eyelets, repeating the pattern in his head over and over and over so no other thoughts would intrude. Finally, he tucked his trousers into his boots and checked with a critical eye to make sure the brown leather shone and that there were no scuffs marring the surface.

Everything was perfect.

He still had to attend to his neck and cover his scent glands, which meant he couldn’t put on his undershirt or tunic yet.

He still wasn’t ready for that though.

Mycroft turned his attention to his bed. He smoothed out the sheets and turned up the covers, tucking the bedding in until it was pristine. It didn’t even look like someone had slept in it the previous night. He threw his pillows to the top of the bed, arranging them fussily, but his fingers hovered over the last pillow. He hesitated, warring with himself, before grasping at the fabric and bringing it up to his nose, inhaling deeply.

_Gregory_.

Mycroft closed his eyes to savor the scent- and all of the dread and anxiety and distress which he’d been avoiding rushed over him. His knees gave out and he was abruptly sitting on the side of the bed with no memory of how he got there.

What had he done? What in the gods’ names had he been thinking last night?

He couldn’t face Gregory again.

There was no earthly way he could. Not after what he’d said.

_“It’s why I love you so much.”_

He knew Gregory had heard him. There’d been no way he hadn’t, as close as they’d been and Mycroft’s face burned where it was pressed into the coolness of the pillow. He scrunched up his face, fighting back a pathetic whimper. He had ruined everything. Feelings had never played a factor in their sexual arrangement. It had been a strictly physical agreement…but now Mycroft had said those words and he’d let Gregory know how he felt for him in the worst sort of way after literally pleading with Gregory to bite him-

Mycroft gasped.

He sprang up and raced to the mirror-

He looked frightened.

That was Mycroft’s first thought on seeing his reflection. He blinked at himself in the glass but his expression remained the same. His eyes were too wide, startled, and his cheeks were pale and bleached of all color. It threw the bruises on his jaw into sharp relief but it wasn’t those which drew Mycroft’s attention. He traced the bite mark on his neck with shaking fingers. It looked so strange, marring his otherwise unblemished skin. Mycroft had never thought he’d see such a mark on himself. He turned his head to the side, staring at it from the corner of his eyes. Gregory hadn’t broken the skin but the place was still red and bruised. It throbbed with pain when Mycroft touched it or turned his head. It wasn’t a bad pain, Mycroft decided as he probed at the mark. It was different. It caused a shivery excitement to pool in his gut and while he didn’t get hard from it, the possibility to do so was there. He touched the mark again, shuddering.

He liked it.

The revelation was shocking. Not as shocking as last night, though, and the feel of Gregory’s teeth at the nape of his neck and the sharp sting of it. The ache of his orgasm which tore through him so intensely he hadn’t even been able to cry out. Then, the floating feeling. The sense he was spinning, with no worries and safe in the knowledge that Gregory was taking care of him-

Mycroft forced himself to stop fondling at the bite mark. But he did like it- the way the mark looked on his skin and the knowledge that it was Gregory who had placed it there. Mycroft was uncomfortable admitting that, even to himself. It scared him. Those were thoughts he’d never allowed to himself to contemplate and doing so now…

What had he been thinking? What if he had ruined things with Gregory?

Mycroft had heard enough anecdotes from Alphas about clingy Omegas who thought just because they’d fucked meant they were in love and would bond and settle down together. The Alphas always hooted with derisive laughter over the naïve, insecure Omegas who’d been stupid enough to let themselves get knotted and marked because it wasn’t the Alpha’s fault the Omega thought it’d all meant something more…

Feeling ill, Mycroft went through the motions of preparing the wax for his wax patches- lighting a candle and waiting for enough wax to pool, all the while sneaking glances at himself in the mirror. Through sheer force of will he kept himself from touching at his neck. Mycroft was an adult. He’d gone into this arrangement with his eyes open. He’d known what to expect and what he wanted out of it and what he would never receive. He wasn’t being naïve. He’d made a mistake last night. That was all. A simple mistake. But, he wondered, was it better to try and explain that to Gregory? Or pretend that nothing had happened?

Mycroft mulled the problem over while he waited for the wax to be ready but, by the time it was, he still wasn’t any closer to deciding what he should do. The hot wax burned as it always did when he poured it over his scent glands but, when he poured it over the bite mark, he shouted from the unexpected pain, dropping the candle which tumbled to the carpet, spilling wax everywhere and all over the tops of his boots. He braced himself against his vanity, teeth gritted and fists clenched against the pain. Tears stung at his eyes. It took ages before the pain finally settled into a manageable throb. Mycroft raised his head, shivering in the aftermath, wetness glazing his cheeks.

“Oh.” He lightly traced over the wax, wincing when even that gentle touch abraded the now-covered mark. Gregory may not have broken the skin, but the place was still extremely sensitive and Mycroft moaned when he realized he’d have to keep his neck covered all day, fabric rubbing against the smarting flesh. He’d never before appreciated why most Omega clothing left their neck glands exposed and he spared a few seconds to envy other Omegas…then straightened his spine and reached for his undershirt and tunic. He laced them up with trepidation, dreading the day ahead.

* * *

 

“What do you mean you plan to stay on for the rest of the Tour?”

Lennox smiled at his nephew’s outrage over the rim of his teacup. “Simply that, John. I plan to stay on for the rest of the Tour, until it reaches Marseille again.”

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“You were planning to leave at Nice.”

“Plans change.”

“What changed them?”

Lennox shrugged nonchalantly, picking up his utensils and tucking into his breakfast with a deliberate show of indifference. John needed to remember his place. Lennox was an Alpha, Duke of Scotland, brother to the Queen, and John’s elder. He didn’t owe the jumped-up little cunt any explanation for his actions.

“There’s a ship ready for you at Nice.” John reminded him, his voice taking on the tone which Lennox knew meant he was losing his temper. He smiled.

“Yes, and there’ll still be a ship ready for me at Nice in another month. I don’t know why you’re making this into such a big deal, John. I’m not breaking any international treaties by staying on. Oh, I’ll admit that I didn’t expect, when we first made our plans, to find much diversion here, but now…” He shrugged again, “I find myself in no hurry to leave Northumbria.”

“I suppose this is because of…that you’re staying for a…person.”

Lennox rolled his eyes at John’s disgustingly innocent euphemism. “I think all the time you’ve spent with that little Omega of yours has affected you, John. Don’t go over all prudish on me now.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“ _Staying for a person_?” Lennox mocked. “You meant to say that I’m staying in Northumbria for an excellent piece of Omega arse. Eh?”

“Uncle!” John rebuked, blushing scarlet, and Lennox threw back his head and openly laughed at him. The other members of the Scottish delegation shifted around the table, not knowing whose side to take, but Lennox knew where their loyalties lay. They were sheep. They would follow wherever he led.

“Good gods! Don’t act so knotless. I think you even blushed at that.” He pointed, chuckling, and enjoyed the way John clenched his jaw, struggling with his rising anger. He’d always hated being made a fool of. Well, if that were the case the little cunt shouldn’t make it so easy to do, Lennox thought. “With reactions like that one would think you were as virginal as Sherlock.”

“Don’t bring him into this.”

Lennox raised an eyebrow. “Oh? My apologies. I didn’t know speaking the name of your little betrothed at the breakfast table was such a crime.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant. This isn’t the right conversation to bring him up in.”

Good lord. Lennox rolled his eyes. He’d always disliked John, with his supercilious attitude, annoying manners, and ill-fitting morality. Lennox preferred Harriet. She was better company, and much more fun. She wouldn’t have tried taking Lennox to task over the breakfast table for speaking about sex. She would’ve joined right in- and had a story or two of her own to share. The girl was a natural at tupping Omegas.

But Harriet was back in Scotland and Lennox was stuck here with John. The other Alpha. The one no one wanted.

“There’s no need to be tiresome. I was merely making a comparison. He _is_ virginal, isn’t he?” Lennox paused, letting the silence hold weight before adding, “Have you checked for yourself?"

John turned red in the face. "I would never-"

"Oh, I know you haven't. Especially after witnessing his reaction to that statue." He glanced around the table, offering the others to share in the joke, and received a few smiles in return. "But I suppose you’ll find out for yourself in seven or eight years on your wedding night…unless,” He chortled, overcome with his own wit, “unless the little thing passes out when he catches a glimpse of your kn-”

“ _Stop it!_ ” John growled. He stood up so quickly that his chair fell backwards with a loud bang and the dishes on the table rattled, a few glasses overturning and spilling juice everywhere, staining the white tablecloth. “Stop speaking about him that way.”

Stamford made a noise of reproof, flapping his hand. “Sit down, Prince John.”

John ignored him. “I don’t want you speaking about him like you are. Not about things like that. Those things.”

"Things-?"

"Sex." John said shortly. "Knottings. His virginity. All of it."

Lennox held up his hands in surrender. “I was merely speculating-“

“Stop speculating.” John snapped. “None of that is any of your business.”

Lennox narrowed his eyes, remembering another reason why he’d always disliked his nephew. He was so godsdamn _prudish_. He would’ve made a very good Omega.

“Very well. My apologies.” He inclined his head as a servant nervously righted John’s chair and John, breathing heavily, lowered himself back down. The tension at the table didn’t waver. Lennox let John stew for a while longer, then gave him a considering look. “That was an admirable reaction, John, the way you defended your Omega. Your father would've been very proud at that display of Alpha possessiveness."

John didn't respond, and Lennox pressed on.

"Perhaps I went the wrong way about things, but I care about you. What with all this betrothal business and your taking care of the little Omega...I can tell that you’re too…pent-up.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” John grated out through clenched teeth and Lennox sprang for the kill.

“You need some release. Knotting some pretty Omega would calm you right down.”

There was more uneasy shifting around the breakfast table and Stamford cleared his throat.

“That may be a discussion to have in private, Lord Lennox-“

“Nonsense. We are in private. It’s just family here.” Lennox swept his eyes over the other members of the delegation then back to John. “And John’s going to have to get used to speculation over his sexual jaunts. He’ll be marrying the Crown Prince. Everyone will wonder about when he’s knotting him and when he’s got him bred. The whole country will be speculating about it.”

John didn’t say anything, keeping his eyes fixed on his untouched breakfast, but he looked suddenly very sick and pale.

“So a little conversation among family isn’t anything shocking. Is it?” Lennox turned away from Stamford, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. He’d always disliked John’s man as well. “I saw your escort at the ball last evening, John. Lady Cavill. Eager for it, wasn’t she? She’d make a fine fuck.”

“I don’t want Lady Cavill, uncle.” John said.

“Whyever not? She’s a beautiful Omega. Comely. They say her husband can’t satisfy her. Some malady keeps him limp like a dead fish. She’d be keen for a good rogering.” Even the subpar one you’d give her, Lennox added in his head.

“I don’t want Lady Cavill.”

“Mm.” Lennox considered John. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t. You always did prefer the more masculine Omegas.” He smirked. “It’s a family trait.”

John’s lip curled. Lennox’s fingers itched to slap the condescending look off his face.

“It’s a shame, then, that you’re saddled with Sherlock. Eh? Oh, he’s a beauty.” Lennox held up his hands to stop John’s protests. “But even you must admit, John- he could pass for a girl just as easy.”

“That doesn’t matter. How Sherlock looks doesn’t matter. He’s too young to be thinking of him that way.”

“Which is _precisely_ my point.” Lennox pressed. He took a perverse pleasure in seeing how affected John was: anger lighting his eyes and bringing the ruddy color to his cheeks, his hands shaking where they were curled into fists on the tabletop. There was more than one way to put him in his place. “Sherlock is much too young.” He agreed. “He won’t be of age for seven years but it isn’t natural for Alphas like us to go without release for such a long time. It’s bad for our health. You’re already irritable.” He pointed out. “And it's because you're being ridiculous and bleating about remaining chaste or some such nonsense. You need to find a good Omega to knot. If you don’t, the next thing you know, you’ll be thinking all sorts of perverted thoughts, getting aroused at every little whiff of scent, losing control of yourself and wanting to mount any available-“

John shoved himself away from the table, the legs of his chair shrieking across the floor. “Excuse me.”

Lennox watched him go, unable to keep the pleased grin from his face, before turning to Stamford. “Was it something I said?”

Stamford gave him a disapproving look. “I’m sure that I don’t know.” He demurred, throwing down his napkin and following after his charge.

Lennox took his time finishing his breakfast, mulling over the conversation and conceding once again that he’d much rather be anywhere else than here, trailing after his weak-willed nephew as he went about wooing a little Omega who looked scared of his own shadow.

It was a farce.

And Lennox had given John quality advice. No less than what his own father would have told him.

Well. There was the problem. John had never paid his esteemed father any mind.

Lennox spied a decanter across the room and tipped some of the amber liquid into his tea. John had always been an arrogant and ungrateful little jumped-up twat, always thinking he knew better. It was his mother’s doing, Lennox’s sister. She’d been just the same. Annoying. Haughty. Until she got married and her Alpha taught her what her correct place was. Lennox would love nothing more than to bring his little nephew down a peg or two. It was for his own good. Really. He’d been allowed to give himself airs above his station, or above what he had any right to have. He was likely to be entirely ruined with all this doting in Northumbria. He should be reminded that he was nothing special, and that the only reason he was in Northumbria in the first place was because of his father’s generosity.

Lennox gave the problem considerable thought as everyone adjourned from the breakfast room and trooped en masse downstairs where horses and carriages were waiting to take the entire party on an outing. Lennox trailed behind the Scottish delegation, ruminating over his nephew but his mind inevitably straying to another thorny problem…

Imagine, he seethed as the memory of the previous evening left him furious, the audacity of Mycroft Holmes spurning him, thinking he was better than him. And for what? To fuck a common, uneducated _soldier_? A rough Alpha scraped from the gutter with barely any manners? Mycroft Holmes had chosen a crude, low-born Alpha over Lennox.

Lennox was royalty. He was rich. He was the brother to the Queen of Scotland. He was handsome and winsome.

But apparently Mycroft Holmes preferred to be bent over and fucked by trash.

Lennox’s mind boggled and a low burning rage settled in his gut.

He hadn’t lied when he told Mycroft that he could be a patient man. It would’ve been in everyone’s best interests if that patience could have been aimed towards the bedroom, but…

He hadn’t given the matter much thought last night. Lennox never made plans when he was angry. Anger clouded judgment and he wanted to be certain his vengeance was exact and precise, designed to maximize the hurt inflicted on Mycroft.

There were so many ways to go about it.

He could use the threat of telling the Queen about Mycroft’s disgraceful connection with his guard and _make_ Mycroft take him to bed.

Lennox relished that idea while he stepped lightly down the stairs. Having Mycroft beneath him, demeaning him, and taking what that idiot Captain Lestrade coveted. He could teach the man what real sex was like and go back home and brag that he had fucked a Prince of Northumbria.

But there could be no true pleasure in that. Mycroft would martyr himself. He would lay there and close his eyes and think of Northumbria and any reaction Lennox managed to elicit would be hard-won and probably unsatisfying. Then, Mycroft would run to Captain Lestrade who would comfort him and the entire experience would undoubtedly bring the two of them closer together.

Disgusting.

Lennox smiled at a few Omegas as he joined the group downstairs. There was an excited thrumming in the air over the prospect of a day outside in the sun and swimming with a picnic lunch in the afternoon. The Royal Tour were leaving Eguisheim the next morning on the way to the next destination and the whole castle from the top to the bottom had the excited, carnival-like air of a holiday as people rushed this way and that, servants called to one another, and the members of the elite fanned themselves and looked bored. Lennox’s enjoyment was marred by the dilemma of how to get revenge against Mycroft.

He spied the Prince through the crowd, standing near his Captain. Captain Lestrade looked troubled, his eyes fixed on the Prince, but Prince Mycroft was ignoring him, staring out over the assembled crowd, looking very bored. Lennox’s eyes narrowed, watching them. The low-bred Alpha had a jewel he didn’t deserve, one he had stolen from those who were worthy and was tarnishing it beyond repair. Lennox would dearly love to bring him down a peg or two as well, and teach him the proper respect for his betters.

Lennox’s attention was suddenly drawn to a small figure who appeared at Prince Mycroft’s elbow- and a pleased smile spread across his face as inspiration struck. _Of course_. It was perfect.

Sherlock.

Mycroft was utterly devoted to his little brother. Lennox had seen that for himself, and everyone in the kingdom talked about how much he loved Sherlock and protected and cared for him. Lennox could use Sherlock to hurt Mycroft. It would be so easy-

And John. It would hurt John, too.

Lennox almost laughed at the sheer brilliance of his plan as it took shape in his mind. He couldn’t contain his glee. This was the perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.

One sweet, innocent, naïve little stone.

* * *

 

“Has everyone left you, darling?”

Sherlock had been watching the party depart from one of the upper battlements of the castle, making himself miserable by imagining how much fun everyone would be having without him, and he was surprised to find the Duke of Lennox behind him, looking contrite for scaring him and offering a pleasant smile.

“What?”

“Forgive me for scaring you. That wasn’t my intention, but I saw you standing up here all by yourself and you looked so lonely…has everyone left you?”

Sherlock shrugged. He wished the Duke would go away. Especially if all he were going to do was point out that no one wanted to spend time with him. “I suppose.”

“But where is my nephew? Surely he didn’t leave you?” Blatant disbelief colored Lennox’s voice, and Sherlock’s heart plummeted. He didn’t want to be reminded how much John hated him, but he particularly didn’t want other people knowing that John could no longer stand him.

It was too humiliating.

John’s neglect stung, his inattention and disregard toward Sherlock leaving him mortified.

“Of course he left. Why should he stay cooped up in the castle all day?” The words stuck in his throat and he had to force them out. “Besides, I’m not allowed to go out with everyone else.”

“Why ever not?”

“I wasn’t given permission.” Sherlock didn’t mention that John was the one who hadn’t given him permission. He didn’t want Lennox knowing that. It was another humiliation which he wanted to deal with in private.

“That’s hardly fair, is it? There’s no reason at all for you to stay alone and cooped up in a dark, gloomy castle all day long. You could go along with me, if you like. I would gladly be your chaperone.”

The offer was tempting. Sherlock was thoroughly sick of being by himself. And he wanted to be with everyone else and have fun. But…

“I don’t think that’s allowed.”

“Why not?” Lennox laughed. “I’m the uncle of your betrothed. We’re _family_ , you and I, after a fashion. Why would I not be allowed to act as your chaperone?”

Sherlock didn’t know why. He just had a feeling that Mycroft wouldn’t approve. Mycroft, who was gone away with the rest of the party to enjoy the sun and fresh air and dangle his feet in the coolness of the river while he drank wine and ate the little delicacies which had been packed for lunch while Sherlock stayed behind, alone…

Sherlock wondered if Lady Cavill had gone with everyone else. Was that why John hadn’t allowed Sherlock to go? Did he want a chance to spend more time with the Omega after the previous evening- and having Sherlock in the party would put a damper on things?

Sherlock felt a little dizzy with the sudden consciousness of that probability and leaned against the parapet, staring over the terrain below where the last line of people were disappearing into the trees.

“I suppose that’s an Omega’s lot in life, though: to be left behind because certain places aren’t meant for them…and to be tasked with unpleasant things.” Lennox propped his elbows on the stonework beside Sherlock, squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun. “Well. If we can’t go with everyone else, perhaps you and I could find something nice to do here while everyone else is gone?”

His words were slow to penetrate the miserable thoughts in Sherlock’s head, but when they did, he turned to Lennox in disbelief. “What do you mean?” Did Lennox genuinely want to spend time with…him?

“I’ve heard the gardens here are very pretty. Or perhaps you would prefer to play a few games? I know there are a few in the library.”

Sherlock felt warmth spread through him at the attention. Since both John and Mycroft had started ignoring him, that sort of kindness had been missing the last few days and now, with Lennox offering Sherlock his hand and smiling at him, he responded to the offer like a flower opening to the first rays of sun.

“You’ll be bored.” He cautioned, not wanting to get his hopes up, but Lennox tsked and shook his head.

“I doubt that, darling. You seem like a very interesting young man. I’ve wanted to get to know you better ever since the betrothal ceremony. Did you know that?”

Sherlock shook his head, entranced, but he still hesitated, staring at the hand Lennox extended.

He wasn’t supposed to. That wasn’t allowed.

Who didn’t allow it, he asked himself. Mycroft, who was angry with him and currently pretending he didn’t exist? John, who seemed to hate him now and was showing Sherlock that in the most painful of ways possible?

Sherlock took Lennox’s hand, getting a rush from his own daring at doing something so forbidden, and let the Alpha lead him off the battlements and down the spiral stairs, back into the castle.

“Oh, yes. I wanted to get to know the beautiful little Omega my nephew was betrothed to and welcome you into our family. But events being as they are…and so much has happened so quickly…” Lennox shrugged. “Now we have the time. We can get to know each other better. Yes?”

“Yes.” Sherlock agreed.

They gained the landing and entered the castle, blinking while their eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness.

“Besides, I believe that I may be of some assistance to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. There are lots of different things to know about being betrothed to an Alpha. Don’t you have questions?”

“I suppose…” It was true. Sherlock had loads of questions- none of which Mycroft would answer. Which was frustrating. He didn’t think any of his questions were terrible, but Mycroft always told him that he’d know one day, or that he’d tell him in another few years.

“And let me guess,” Lennox divined, “your brother told you that you were too young and that he would tell you when you were older?”

Sherlock made a disgusted face. “Yes.”

“I must admit that I agree with him.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” Lennox smiled at Sherlock’s dismay. “You _were_ too young…but you’re not anymore. You’re betrothed to John now. You’re a mature young man and slated to be married soon and you shouldn’t be kept in the dark. You should be told certain things which I’m sure your brother still refuses to tell you.” Lennox glanced around the deserted hallway then leaned closer to Sherlock, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “I could tell you the answers, if you wanted.”

“You could?” Sherlock asked doubtfully. He appreciated the Duke of Lennox’s offer- and he did want to know everything Mycroft wouldn’t tell him…but he thought maybe he should refuse the offer. After all, most of his questions were rather _private_.

An awareness of something Sherlock didn’t fully understand skittered up and down his spine. He suddenly wished that Lennox were not still holding his hand.

“Yes. I would do anything in my power to help you, darling. After all…” Lennox paused and gave Sherlock a commiserating look which made his heart twist in his chest, “I’ve noticed that John seems very unhappy here.”

“Oh.” Sherlock had known John wasn’t happy, but hearing his own uncle confirm it, hurt. If Lennox had noticed, that meant everyone else had as well.

Sherlock wanted to sink through the floor with embarrassment because now he knew that everyone was pitying him, talking about him, speculating on why his Alpha betrothed wanted nothing to do with him. No wonder Lady Cavill had acted the way she did last night at the ball, clinging to John and leaning too close, speaking directly into his ear...

Sherlock bit his lip, warring against conflicting emotions of anger and hurt and sadness and annoyance, the feeling of being misunderstood and injured by John’s actions, tempered by his self-recriminations and own feelings of irrelevance. Things had started out so well, Sherlock thought, shuffling his feet as they moved further down the hall. He and John had got along and John had seemed happy and content, and he’d smiled at Sherlock and spent time with him and seemed to actually care about him. But now…

“I have my nephew’s best interests in mind, Sherlock. I want him to be happy here in Northumbria, and I think that his happiness here is intrinsically tied to being happy with you. I could give you some advice which may help.”

It made sense to Sherlock. After all, he had been the reason for the current rift between himself and John. He hadn’t known how to make amends thus far, and maybe Lennox would have some suggestions. It was worth a try anyway.

Sherlock desperately wanted to please John. He wanted John to be happy with him again.

“What did you have in mind?”

“We could have lessons. Private lessons. Just the two of us.” Lennox explained. “I could tell you more about John and what he was like in Scotland, and answer any questions you may have. I could also help acclimatize you to certain aspects of being an Omega.”

Sherlock frowned. “What does that mean?”

Lennox laughed, chucking Sherlock under the chin like he’d done something adorable. “You are utterly precious, darling. I can see why John likes you so well. Or why he _used to like_ you. But you and I can fix whatever the problem is. I promise.” He vowed, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock nodded, and he’d opened his mouth to ask his first question when the distant sound of voices drew their attention. Lennox stepped back, dropping Sherlock’s hand.

“We’ll start our lessons when we reach our next destination.” He said. “For now…I believe there are some board games in the library which will prove very diverting…”


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little short chapter :) Hope ya'll enjoy.

Mycroft hooked one of his splayed legs around Gregory’s hips and clutched at the bedding in a white-knuckled grip. He panted, urging the Alpha to thrust faster, and his body was jolted up the bed from the force of Gregory’s thrusts. The mortifying sound of skin smacking against skin- the gross lewdness of which never failed to make Mycroft blush- grew louder, almost echoing off the walls. It hurt how forcefully he was being fucked. Mycroft felt it through his whole body, just this side of too much, but he didn’t want to tell Gregory to stop. He kept urging for more.

Gregory slurred compliments against the skin of Mycroft’s neck, his moist breaths ragged. His hands roamed over Mycroft’s chest and arms and stomach before pushing into his hair to grip and pull at it, angling Mycroft’s head so he could be kissed, sloppy and wet and perfect.

It seemed, Mycroft thought a bit hysterically, that they weren’t going to discuss what had happened last night.

Which was more than fine with Mycroft. He would prefer the entire incident be forgotten, lost in the annals of time. He groaned into Gregory’s mouth but the sound was lost in the smudge of lips and the exciting thrill of Gregory’s tongue sliding against his own. Mycroft was close, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach, and he wrapped a hand around himself to Gregory’s breathlessly murmured approval. His body clenched, every muscle tensing, and he closed his eyes, riding the spiral of pleasure higher. He hadn’t thought he’d get to have this tonight. He’d worried all day about the previous evening and what he’d said, convinced that Gregory would either avoid him entirely, refusing to come to his bedroom, or want to talk. But from the moment Gregory entered his bedroom, they’d hardly spoken a word, devouring each other in lieu of librettos. It was a relief, in more than one way, and Mycroft let himself go, giving over to the carnal act of fucking and allowing himself to forget about all of the problems which were plaguing him- the Royal Tour, Lennox and Gregory, the sudden coolness between Sherlock and John- and just enjoy being fucked and used and pleasured.

“Mycroft.” Gregory gave one final thrust and buried his cock in Mycroft’s body with a sharp stab. Mycroft could feel him pulsing, coming, hips twitching minutely with every throb, and he whimpered, feeling left behind. He knew that Gregory would attend to his pleasure after he’d recovered from his own, but Mycroft sped up the motions of his hand, wanting to come now. The scent of Alpha was all around, invading his lungs with every breath, spicy and hypnotic, and his throat burned with suppressed cries. He clenched around Gregory’s still-hard length, appreciating the slick fullness before his eyes slammed closed as he came. Ejaculate jetted between them and Mycroft gave himself over to the pleasure, trembling his way through it and into a pleasant sort of exhaustion. Lips pressed against his, urging him to respond, and Mycroft did but with a very weary, put-upon sigh. Gregory chuckled at him, the sound fond.

“Stay here and recover then.” He kissed Mycroft again and then rolled away, the bed creaking as he moved. “I’ll go and get us a flannel.”

Mycroft hummed his thanks, keeping his eyes closed as he listened to Gregory move around the room with practiced ease and then settle beside him in the bed once more. He swiped the wet flannel across Mycroft’s stomach before straying lower and Mycroft spread his legs for him, imperious, wordlessly directing him as to what needed to be done.

“You’re incorrigible.” Gregory teased, but he did as commanded, and Mycroft smiled at him.

“It’s the least you can do after using me so thoroughly.” He expected a witty rejoinder, but Gregory only flashed him an answering smile.

“I suppose you’re right.”

A beat of unease reverberated through Mycroft, a sense that something was suddenly Not Right. This was it: the moment he’d dreaded all day. He closed his eyes again, keeping his breaths steady, and waited until Gregory had finished cleaning himself off and thrown the flannel across the room to be dealt with in the morning.

“Forgive me, but I am very tired, Gregory.” He hurried to say. “I need to go to sleep.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course.” Gregory sounded surprised, confirming Mycroft’s fear that he’d wanted to talk about what he’d said last night. “Does that mean…I guess I’ll just leave if that’s what you-“

“No!” Mycroft’s eyes snapped open in alarm. “No, don’t leave. Gregory. I only meant.” He cut himself off. “You are more than welcome to stay, of course. I want you here. I only meant that…I will be going to sleep _as soon as possible_ …” He stressed the words, hoping the added weight informed Gregory of the hidden meaning, and it seemed to do the trick. Gregory nodded in understanding, sliding beneath the covers and rolling closer to Mycroft, gathering him in his arms as he usually did, and Mycroft burrowed against Gregory’s side with a pleased moan.

He could hear the pounding of his heart beneath his breastbone and closed his eyes, giving another contented sigh. If he could continue putting off the inevitable, perhaps eventually it wouldn’t _be_ inevitable and would be a conversation he could avoid entirely. Gregory’s fingers rubbed against Mycroft’s temple in a lulling cadence and Mycroft let himself relax further, sensing the danger of the moment had passed.

It was quiet in the bedroom and the denizens beyond. Everyone in the castle had gone to bed early in preparation for an early departure in the morning for the journey to the second stop of the Royal Tour. Gregory and Mycroft would be at the forefront of the preparations and they both needed to get some rest. As Gregory’s chest rose and fell gently beneath his head, Mycroft allowed the tension to drain from his limbs and let the numbing coolness of sleep pervade in its place.

Mycroft was almost asleep when Gregory whispered into the silence.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“…Did you mean it?”

Mycroft was abruptly wide awake. His stomach dropped like a stone and he was left feeling sick, slightly dizzy, and breathless with fear.

“Did I mean what?” He asked, even though he knew it was pointless to pretend that he didn’t know what Gregory meant.

“What you said last night.” Gregory replied. “What you said after…” His fingers slipped down from Mycroft’s temple to stroke at his neck, gentle against the mark he’d left behind.

Every possible thing he could say ran through Mycroft’s head but in his fear he couldn’t grasp at a single one of them, or make up a response coherent enough to evade the question. He felt caught out, like a little boy who was about to be taken to task by his mother for an embarrassing misdeed.

“I don’t see what it matters either way.” He endeavored to remain blasé but even to his own ears he sounded frightened.

“Of course it matters, Mycroft.” Gregory pulled away from him and sat up in the bed. Mycroft slowly followed suite, wishing he was clothing for this conversation, dread sitting like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. “It matters what you said, whether you meant it or not…I shouldn’t have to explain that to you.” He sounded hurt and Mycroft winced.

“I-I know that it matters, Gregory. I only meant…I don’t see why it would be important- what I said- because it was merely words said in a certain sequential order which, without the right merit-“

“Mycroft. Did you mean it when you said that you loved me?” Gregory demanded, his voice rigid and implacable, brooking no refusal, and Mycroft knew it was all over. He wanted to cry. He wondered if Gregory would laugh at him, or be disgusted. Would he make fun of him? What if he got up and dressed and walked out? Called an end to their affair? What if he wanted nothing else to do with him?

Or worse, what if he pitied him?

What if Gregory pretended that he loved him in return, saying he loved him to avoid hurting Mycroft because Mycroft was his Prince and Gregory would be afraid that he would be removed as Captain if he didn’t pretend to reciprocate Mycroft’s feelings?

But the alternative, lying to Gregory, was repugnant. The closest thing to sacrilege Mycroft could think of. He couldn’t do that.

The word was barely a whisper but it fell into the room, shattering. Mycroft’s ears rang in the silence it left behind.

“Yes.”

The mattress dipped and swayed as Gregory moved and for a wild moment Mycroft thought he was climbing out of bed in disgust- and he jumped when Gregory’s palm cupped at his cheek, turning his head to look at him. The warm contact felt wonderful but Mycroft kept his guard up, waiting for the rebuke, the gentle letdown, the teasing reply which would turn his emotions into a joke.

“You love me?” Gregory asked softly and Mycroft nodded, keeping his lips pressed together so they wouldn’t wobble. He’d never been so humiliated in all his life. “For how long?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I’d like to know.” Gregory said. “Please?”

Mycroft huffed. “Fine.” He snapped, his distress over the entire situation turning into irrational frustration. “Do you remember that day at Marseille when you had the asinine idea to teach me how to defend myself in hand-to-hand combat?”

Gregory nodded, waiting for Mycroft to say more. When he didn’t, Gregory’s eyes widened.

“But. _No_. Mycroft. That was…that was _years_ ago.” He stammered, and his obvious astonishment made Mycroft’s insides writhe with fresh shame. He knew how pathetic it sounded for him to have been secretly in love with his Alpha Captain for more than four years.

“Please do not make fun of me.” Mycroft jerked away from Gregory and his touch. He was breathing heavily and his ears were ringing, cheeks smarting with a sharp blush, but his eyes were (thank the gods) dry. “If you did not want to know the answer, you should not have asked the question.”

“Mycroft, I wasn’t-“

“Last night was a mistake. I never planned to tell you of my regard and I am not asking you to return my affections in any way. Such emotions were not part of our original arrangement and so you need not feel obligated to pretend to something you do not feel. I knew of your apathy from the very beginning and I still entered into this arrangement. I knew what to expect from you and so you do not need to fear retribution because you do not return my affections. It’s silly to think that you would be able to care for me beyond a professional capacity.” Mycroft bit his lip. Gregory was silent, making no effort to disprove what Mycroft was saying, which rather confirmed what Mycroft had already known. It hurt, the acknowledgement and proof of Gregory’s indifference towards him, but he’d known to expect it. Mycroft pushed the feelings of hurt and misplaced anger aside, rallying his control as best he could. “I don’t expect you to love me, Gregory. This doesn’t have to change anything between us.”

Mycroft held his breath, waiting for what the Alpha would say, and he sent up a silent prayer to the gods that Gregory would choose to stay. He wasn’t ready to lose Gregory. Not yet.

“Mycroft.” Gregory began, sounding extremely stunned. “I’m honored that you feel that way about me. That you love me. And you…you really do? Love me?”

Mycroft frowned. “Yes. That is what I’ve just said, Gregory. Multiple times, in fact.”

“Yeah, I know. I heard. It’s just…it’s kind of hard to believe.”

“Why?”

Gregory snorted, starting to sound more like himself. “I’m not exactly the ideal Alpha to fall in love with. Especially for a Prince.”

“I have always thought you are perfect.” Mycroft admitted. He smiled. It was easy to compliment Gregory. “You are very handsome, Gregory, but you are honorable as well.”

“Honorable?” Gregory raised a skeptical brow and the blush which had faded somewhat from Mycroft’s cheeks blazed into life again.

“Yes, honorable. That is an important trait to possess. I could never love someone who wasn’t honorable and I’ve always trusted you because of that. Implicitly. They are not just words when I say that I trust you with my life. Last year at the Queen’s Head Inn, for example…I would not have suffered anyone else’s attentions but yours…You made me feel safe, Gregory. I knew you would take care of me and that no harm would occur because you wouldn’t let it. And you didn’t. You took such good care of me. I loved you even then, but I believe that is why I continue to love you…”

Gregory blinked at Mycroft for a few moments after his speech, seemingly at a loss for words. Just when Mycroft was beginning to think that he’d said the wrong thing, Gregory lunged forward. He yanked Mycroft to him, crushing him against his chest, and brought their lips together in a feverish kiss. Mycroft found himself pressed back against the bed, Gregory moving over him, and he could feel that the Alpha was hard. Mycroft’s body automatically reacted, arousal rushing through him even while he responded as best he could to the hard, slanting kisses.

“Mycroft, you have no idea.”

Gregory was talking, Mycroft realized. His words were coming fast and they were muffled against his lips but he could still make out hurried words-

“…how much I love you- you have no fucking idea…been so long…”

“What?” Mycroft tired to pull away to hear what Gregory was saying, but the Alpha just pressed closer, seeming intent on getting as close to Mycroft as possible.

“-thought it was impossible…didn’t think…but I’ve loved you this whole time-“

“ _Gregory_.” Mycroft wrenched himself away from the plundering lips and pushed Gregory away, holding him at arm’s length. “Gregory, what are you saying?”

Gregory strained forward to kiss him. His eyes were wide and feverish and fixed intently on Mycroft’s face. “Mycroft, I love you.”

Mycroft felt dizzy again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

“I’ve loved you this whole time. Every since last year. At the Queen’s Head. And not just because of what happened. It was so much more than that. I got to know you. See you. Not the Prince but you. Who you were. And I loved you and I’ve felt that way this whole time.”

It wasn’t possible. None of what Gregory was saying could be real.

“It’s why I agreed to this. I wanted you because I loved you.”

Mycroft blinked. His mouth was hanging open and he didn’t even have the presence of mind to shut it.

“I didn’t think you would ever love me. I didn’t think it was possible. But now-“

“You love me?” Mycroft asked. The words sounded preposterous. There was no way that Gregory…that he…

“Of course I love you.” Gregory breathed and Mycroft shivered, the words potent. He wanted to believe him. It just didn’t seem possible that Gregory would feel that level of affection toward him. “I love you so much, Mycroft.”

* * *

 

Greg’s heart was breaking because Mycroft looked so _lost_. His eyes darted back and forth between each of Greg’s own as if searching for the lie and the longer it took for him to find, the more confused he looked.

Greg wanted to murder the Queen. He knew this was her doing: Mycroft’s inability to accept the fact that someone loved him, and his next question confirmed those suspicions.

“I don’t understand. You…you love me?” He asked again, so hesitant and unsure, sounding so godsdamn innocent.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Greg caressed Mycroft’s cheek again, needing to be close to him. He was still reeling from the revelation that Mycroft Holmes was in love with him. “Yes. I love you. I have this whole time.”

Mycroft’s brow crumpled with bewilderment. “I don’t understand.” He repeated.

What’s there to understand? Greg bit back his retort because he knew he wasn’t angry at Mycroft. He was angry at someone else entirely, someone who had done their best to warp Mycroft into being the person they wanted instead of-

“ _Mycroft_.” He pulled the other man into a kiss. “I love you.”

“Tell me again.” Mycroft begged, and Greg didn’t hesitate for a second. He would use his very last breath to tell Mycroft-

“I love you.”

And he did tell him. Again and again. While they kissed. While they rolled and Mycroft ended up straddling Greg’s hips, riding him. He was still wet from before, his own slick and the remnants of Greg’s semen, and so it was easy for Greg to thrust inside him, tearing a surprised gasp from Mycroft’s throat while he told him-

“I love you…I love you, Mycroft…” He repeated it while he thrust, driving them closer to orgasm. He whispered it when they came, his voice strained and breaking and hoarse. Mycroft stared at him the whole time in wonder, like Greg was doing something fantastic. So just to be sure, Greg told him again.

“I love you.”

And while they were laying together, sated and sweaty and sleepy, he whispered it into Mycroft’s hair, his skin, against his lips, and the soft folds of his stomach.

“I love you…I love you…I love you…”

“Tell me again.” Mycroft asked one last time, his voice dragging with tiredness, and Greg, his own eyelids droopy, would always do what his Prince commanded of him.

“I love you, Mycroft.”

“Gregory?”

“Yeah?”

“…I love you, too.”


	11. Chapter 10

**4 days later**

The castle at Villemoustaussou could be seen from several miles away, an imposing edifice which ranged over the entire mountainside.

People in the royal train pointed when they saw it in the distance, exclaiming over the beauty. Pale stones reflected the sunlight, blinding everyone who looked at it, and numerous turrets jutted into the sky, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds which created the sense that the castle was something straight out of a fairy story. It had stood almost as long as the Holmes’ rule of Northumbria and towered over the surrounding village- and the world, it seemed- with lofty importance.

Excitement spread through the column of travelers. Voices rose and fell with increasing volume. Bursts of music were heard. A general restlessness pervaded the air as everyone realized they were nearing their journey’s end. They anticipated an end to weary days of travel, a sumptuous feast, music and dancing, entertainment, and a soft bed to rest their heads on.

None of those things held any appeal to Sherlock.

He didn’t even care about the castle, even though he knew a lot about it. He knew the history of it, when it had been constructed and by whom and how long the construction had taken. He knew about the different battles which had taken place there, both major and minor. He knew about the various crops which were grown in rotation in the surrounding farmlands and the machinations of industry and the different craftsmen’s guilds which called Villemoustaussou their home, second to Marseille. He knew about the astronomy tower, the ceiling of which was open to the heavens, the library, the gardens, the weapons room with a plethora of armories, and where the soldiers trained. He knew about the intricate hedge-maze which was tucked away in a hidden part of one of the gardens, hidden by a door all covered in ivy. He knew the name of the noble family which currently ruled Villemoustaussou: Tilde, the head of which was a female Alpha, Marchioness Ophelia Tilde, and her Omega mate, Afrid.

Sherlock had learned everything he could about Villemoustaussou with the idea of pleasing John. He’d planned to act as John’s guide when they reached the city and make himself indispensable to the Alpha by showing him all of the fun things they could do together.

Sherlock sighed deeply. All his knowledge was useless now.

He looked up at the castle, squinting his eyes against the brilliant sunshine, and wondered what the upcoming days held for him. The stops at Eguisheim and Carcassonne had been dreadful. He doubted Villemoustaussou would be any better.

Sherlock was suddenly seized with a desperate yearning to go home.

He thought of his bed at Marseille, his books and his toys and the comfort of home. Places he knew and people he recognized. He hated it here: lost in the crowd and forgotten about. No one wanted him here. They barely ever remembered he even existed.

Why couldn’t he just go home?

He didn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t want to be betrothed to an Alpha who disliked him. He didn’t want to be ignored in front of everyone and continue to suffer the humiliation of it. He didn’t want to be whispered about- that there was something wrong with him, that John was displeased with him, that no one was surprised John preferred other Omegas to him. Sherlock had never been so lonely in his life.

People clamored to catch a glimpse of him wherever they went and it had been fun at first, but now Sherlock’s skin crawled at the multitude of inquisitive eyes. He tried to hide, convinced the people only wanted to see him in order to find for themselves the same flaw that John had found. And how was he to know what that flaw even was, Sherlock thought. John was still avoiding him. They hadn’t spoken since leaving Marseille.

Disappointment crushed him. Sherlock had looked forward to the Royal Tour for months. And after he’d met John, he’d looked forward to it even more because he wanted to spend time with the handsome, interesting Alpha he was betrothed to. He was upset to find that all his excitement had been for nothing. He’d been wrong about everything and now his hopes were trampled in the dirt.

Sherlock ducked his head back into the carriage and closed the curtain so no one could see him. He could still hear the roar of the crowd as they passed through the village. It was palpable, a thundering rumble in his chest that made him feel hollow. All those people. So close, and yet Sherlock himself was all alone.

Well, not entirely alone-

“What’s wrong, darling?” Father asked, staring at him worriedly in the gloom of the carriage, and for some reason, Sherlock’s lip began to tremble at the show of concern which had been wholly absent the previous few days.

“Do you think maybe we could go home after this? Please? Just me and you, and let the rest of them continue on?”

Consort Holmes shook his head, looking apologetic. “I’m afraid not, Sherlock. After all the time and expense and planning that went into the Tour, and after everything Mycroft’s done to make sure it goes smoothly…I’m afraid your leaving just isn’t possible. Besides, if you left it would displease Mummy.”

It was the answer he’d expected, but Sherlock’s chin still buckled. He screwed up his face. He could feel the tears threatening to spill over, trembling on his lower lashes. He wanted to go _home_.

“Please- maybe if we asked her-“ Sherlock tried, his voice rough with emotion, catching as he fought against the sobs building in his throat. “-maybe she would let me…maybe-“

But Sherlock knew father was right: Mummy wouldn’t let him come home. No matter what he said, she would insist on his finishing the Tour. If anything, he realized with a sinking feeling, she would blame him for John’s abandonment and perhaps even punish him for whatever it was he’d done.

Sherlock broke down.

All the stress and strain and degradation of the past few days caught up to him at once and it was devastating to know that he would have to endure even more of it for another two months-

Sherlock sobbed so hard that it hurt. His throat was raw agony. Tears scorched wet trails down his cheeks and he couldn’t bother to make himself stop.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Consort Holmes murmured, reaching out for his son. “Come here, darling.”

Sherlock scooted closer to his father and burrowed against his side. He shoved his face into the bend of his father’s neck and let the comforting scent which harkened of warmth and safety and love wash over him. His father’s hand cradled the back of his head and he scented at Sherlock’s wet cheek with gentle sweeps of his own.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry about all of this.”

Sherlock wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, but his throat was clogged with suppressed sobs. Instead, he clung to his father’s tunic, breathing harshly through his nose, and tried to tell him without speaking that he didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault that Sherlock was miserable. And it certainly wasn’t his fault that Sherlock couldn’t go home until the end of the Tour.

“I’m sorry.” Father said again. “You’re too young to have this burden- I told Mummy that but…but this is part of your duty. You’re meant to be on this Tour, and be seen by your future subjects.” It was a harsh truth, but there was no admonishment in his voice. Sherlock took comfort in that. “Part of being a royal Omega is this: meeting your people, letting them see you. Being introduced to everyone alongside your future Alpha. You’ve been too little seen your whole life, Sherlock, and many of the people only have a vague idea about you. This will be good, you being out of Marseille for a while. And you will get used to the crowds and the noise just as I did, after a time.” He sighed, and in the exhalation was a world of things unspoken. “It was very difficult for me when I first came to Northumbria and was bonded to your mother. Northumbria was so different from everything I was used to. So noisy and crowded. But I wasn’t allowed to run away and hide…and you can’t either.” He hesitated, and when he next spoke his tone was wry and laden with some emotion Sherlock couldn’t understand. “Your mother didn’t allow me a reprieve, and she will not allow you one either. It’s the way of Omegas, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not the crowds.” Sherlock managed to garble out through his tears. 

“Then what is it?”

But Sherlock couldn’t speak again. Father held him tighter, shushing him and making soothing noises, but didn’t try and make him stop crying.

“What can I do?” Father asked, all but begging. “What can I do to help?”

Sherlock didn’t know. He could really think of only one hope: Lennox. The Duke had promised to give him private lessons and teach him how to please John and get in his good graces again. But their lessons hadn’t happened yet. Carcassonne had been too tight, quarters cramped, and people sleeping almost on top of each other, for them to have time or space for the lessons. Lennox had intimated that when they arrived at Villemoustaussou their lessons would begin. Sherlock agreed, but was crestfallen. He wanted to start being friends with John again soon.

“Please, tell me. I’ll do anything for you, my love, you know I will. Please, tell me…”

Sherlock sniffed and father handed him a white handkerchief to mop his face with. “It’s John.” He said, voice clogged with tears and muffled beneath the fabric. He was surprised father was able to understand him at all.

“John?”

“Yes. He h-hates me.” Sherlock hiccupped.

“John doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, he does. I know he does. We used to be friends but now we’re not. John won’t even talk to me anymore. He won’t look at me. All he ever does is ignore me. And he’s not allowed me to go on any of the outings since we started the Tour. And it’s- it’s all my fault.”

Beneath the wheels of the carriage, the rumble of cobblestones reverberated, announcing they were nearing the castle. Father took the handkerchief from Sherlock and gently swiped at the tear tracks on his cheeks, cleaning him up as best he could.

“I have noticed John’s treatment of you…but I assumed that was just part of who John was as an Alpha Patron. Distant. Uninvolved. After all, most Alphas don’t allow their Omegas many freedoms. But how is that your fault?”

“John’s not like that. He wasn’t like that. Not at first. But I embarrassed him. I- I made everyone think he was a bad Alpha when he’s not and when it was really my fault that I got injured.”

“Injured-?” Father asked, but Sherlock plowed on, desperate to confess everything.

“I’ve humiliated him over and over- at- at…Marseille and then Eguisheim when I pretended to faint in front of everyone and…and he hates me now. He w-won’t spend any time with me and all I w-wanted was for us to be f-f-friends.” Sherlock ended his speech with a small wail. More tears started and Father shushed him. He dabbed at each new tear before it fell, trying to preserve Sherlock’s clothes as best he could.

“Now, now. Sherlock. Try not to cry, love, we’re almost at the castle. You don’t want everyone to see that you’ve been crying. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you say…”

Sherlock, crying too hard to speak, nodded. Father sighed.

“Very well, if it’s really as you say…” He twitched aside a corner of the curtain to judge how close they were to the castle and winced. He quickly turned back to his bawling son. “Please, Sherlock. You must calm yourself. Take deep breaths, love. In and out. In. And out.” He breathed with Sherlock, exaggeratedly filling his chest with air and then releasing it in a great rush, again and again, until Sherlock was no longer crying. Father beamed at him. “Very good, love. Very good. Keep breathing. We can’t have you stepping out of the carriage in tears. Remember: appearances are the only things that matter. It’s all about how you look. You don’t want to give the people a reason to talk. Do this for me- don’t start crying again- and I’ll give you some advice about John.”

Sherlock hiccupped and did his best to stop crying. He kept breathing like father wanted him to while father fussed with his curls, pushing them away from his face and arranging them just so.

“Very good, darling. Very good. Now. Have you tried apologizing to John?”

Sherlock hiccupped again and shook his head.

“Then you should. If John really is as angry with you as you say-“

“He is-“

“An apology would fix it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. John seems to be a sensible Alpha. He is prideful, but all Alpha’s are.” Father’s lips twisted. “They’re _too_ prideful sometimes, and that gets us Omegas into trouble. However, I believe that John would forgive you if you told him that you understood what you’d done wrong, promised not to do it again in the future, and apologized. I’m sure of it.”

Sherlock turned the suggestion over in his head while Father finished making him presentable. The carriage wheels were slowing now, trumpets sounding very close by announcing their arrival. His eyes were dry and scratchy now and he rubbed at them. “Do you really think John would forgive me?”

“The friendship he felt for you last week hasn’t gone away. John’s hurt. His pride has been injured and Alpha pride must always be catered to. Remember that, Sherlock. Oh, gods above!” Father cried. “We’re here-“

Sherlock winced when he raised the shades, spilling sunshine into the carriage. He blinked the blindness out of his eyes and descended from the carriage, falling into step behind Mycroft. The thunder of voices and milling of bodies was all around him, but Sherlock barely noticed. He was at work arranging his apology speech to John, encouraged in a way he hadn’t felt in days.

* * *

 

The Marchionesses Tilde and their children were waiting for them in the throne room with gifts and prettily said lip service. They stood together at the foot of the dais, their hands clasped and looking up at the Holmes brothers and Prince John with pleasant smiles.

The Alpha Marchioness Tilde was an older woman, thin, with chestnut brown hair swept back from her austere face in a no-nonsense bun. Her wife, the Omega Marchioness, was her complete opposite. Young, short, and plump in a way which could generously be called “pleasing”, she had a round, friendly face and easy manners. It had obviously been an arranged marriage- as most noble marriages were- but the couple were easy and relaxed next to each other in a way most other couples were not. When the Alpha Marchioness introduced her wife to the Princes, her eyes lingered over her mate, the serious expression on her face melting into something so worshipful with admiration that John had to look away.

John only half-listened while the introductions were being made. He’d heard it all before and besides- he was very aware of Sherlock standing beside him on the dais. It was the closest they’d been together since the welcoming ceremony at Carcassonne and John subtly scented the air, hoping to catch a passing trace of Sherlock’s scent. But the throne room was vast and packed full of people. There were too many conflicting scents, accompanied by flowers scattered throughout the room.

John subsided with frustration.

He _missed_ Sherlock. It was like a physical ache just beneath his breastbone.

He wanted to reach out and touch Sherlock. Scent his wrist the way he’d done before. He wanted to touch his hair and feel how soft his curls were. He remembered the way those curls had felt against his nose when he’d scented Sherlock while carrying him to his room after Sherlock's supposed “faint” and his mouth went dry.

He _needed_ to be close to Sherlock again.

He needed to make sure that Sherlock was alright. He wanted to know that Sherlock’s injuries were healed and that he was feeling better. He wanted to ask if Sherlock was enjoying the Tour. He wanted to ask what Sherlock thought about Villemoustaussou and if he’d liked Carcassonne. He wanted to ask why Sherlock hadn’t gone on any of the outings so far. What he was doing during the day. Where he went. Who he spent time with-

John strained his eyes to the side to look at Sherlock. He was so beautiful, dressed in his ceremonial clothes with the glittering crown perched atop his curls, and looking like a fey creature who had consented to grace the hall with his presence. And he belonged to John.

Not that John deserved him.

His heart still leaped in his chest at the sight of the little boy, hammering as the need to touch him grew worse. The ache in his chest reached a feverish pitch. John felt sweat break out along his forehead. His palms were slick. He wondered, for a brief second, if he were about to faint.

Marchioness Tilde and her wife curtseyed, their three young children following suite. John prepared to descend from the dais. Relief swept over him that if he were going to faint, at least he would not be doing it in front of the entire Court.

“As a present to the young couple,” Marchioness Tilde announced, “we have requested our priestess to perform a blessing to the Mother Goddess, to ask for Her protection over their future love and prosperity.” She beckoned and a woman parted from the crowd. She was old with greying hair and dressed in the plain, blue robes of all priestess who served the Mother Goddess. With wobbly steps, she mounted the dais and bowed to Sherlock and John.

“Prince Sherlock. Alpha Prince John. If the two of you would join hands, I will begin the invocation to the Mother Goddess.”

The bottom dropped out of John’s stomach. Moving as if he were in a trance, he turned to Sherlock as he’d been told and he clasped the younger boy’s hand when the priestess told him to. Unexpected pleasure rushed through him at the touch, raising goosebumps along his skin. He stared at where his hand was entwined with Sherlock’s. John didn’t hear a word the priestess was saying. He was entirely captivated by Sherlock. All he could think about was that Sherlock was allowing John to touch him. He was displaying enough trust in John to hold his hand.

But Sherlock’s hand was so small. Brittle. His palm was warm against John’s. He was shaking slightly. John could feel the fine tremor through his fingers. He was struck by just how tiny Sherlock was. Breakable. Little and weak. He needed protection- and it was up to John to provide that protection.

And thus far, he had done a piss poor job.

The room narrowed. It was suddenly hard to breathe. John’s knees tried to buckle and it was only through sheer force of will that he remained standing.

John could hear the priestess praying but her voice was distorted, as if coming from underwater. He was Sherlock’s Alpha Patron and he’d failed him. Every day since the betrothal, John had failed to protect Sherlock because he was a coward. A fucking stupid, mewling, weak-willed coward.

John trembled with the need to scent at Sherlock. He needed that physical demonstration of his willingness to protect the little boy with whom he’d been entrusted. He didn’t know what else to do. He’d battled with the idea since that horrible night at the inn, when Sherlock’s thighs had been covered in blood and Lennox berated John for failing to protect him. What did protecting Sherlock mean? The only example John had was his father, but King Watson hadn’t protected. He’d controlled and bullied and belittled and tormented, tyrannizing over John’s mother with cruelty and an iron fist.

John didn’t want to do that to Sherlock. He wanted to keep Sherlock safe and happy…but he didn’t know how to do that. He’d thought it best, after that horrible night when he’d failed Sherlock so miserably, to put some distance between them until he’d sorted it out. John had only meant to give himself a few days to work off his frustration, subdue the desire to scent Sherlock, and then decide what needed to be done…

But he’d been running from the situation ever since.

He was a coward.

He hated himself.

He wished he could talk to his mother, just long enough to ask her advice. What should he do? How could he protect Sherlock and still give him freedom? Was that even possible? How could they have a future together if John kept fucking up? There was no one he could ask in Northumbria. Not without looking weak.

“-and amen!” The priestess announced and there was a sudden commotion as everyone began leaving the hall, streaming toward the exits in search of food and comfortable beds. John realized he was still holding Sherlock’s hand and made to drop it-

Except he didn’t.

He raised Sherlock’s hand to his face and scented at his wrist, lightly running his nose along the thin skin beneath which he could see the blue traceries of veins. They had only been betrothed a short time and already Sherlock’s scent was familiar to John, wonderful, and he greedily inhaled as much as he could of it, aware of the fading ache in his chest and the swoop of heady relief-

John’s eyes snapped open with horror as he suddenly realized what he was doing.

He dropped Sherlock’s hand like it had burned him, stepping away from him so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me for taking such a liberty.” He stammered, aware that everyone was staring at him. People were murmuring. Pointing. He was afraid to see the disgust on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock was gaping at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, looking as stunned as John had ever seen him. His stomach twisted with shame.

“Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to…that was a mistake.” He hardly knew what he was saying. He just needed to make this right and then make his escape. “It won’t happen again. I don’t know what I was even thinking. It was wrong of me to do. Please, excuse me.” He bowed smartly and, without waiting to be dismissed, tripped quickly down the stairs of the dais and started for the exit at the far end of the room.

John had a hideous feeling that he had just ruined whatever remaining chance he’d had with Sherlock. All because he’d wanted to scent Sherlock. He’d wanted to feel better. He’d wanted, he’d wanted, he’d wanted. He hadn’t stopped to wonder what _Sherlock_ wanted, if _Sherlock_ wanted to be scented in front of the entire godsdamn Court by an Alpha who had continuously failed him and who emphatically did not deserve to scent him.

John was disgusted with himself.

He gained the hallway and began climbing the stairs to the upper rooms, pushing himself until the muscles in his legs burned. He only had a vague idea of where he was going but in his panic he needed to be alone, and as far away from Sherlock as possible. He turned into a deserted hallway and picked up his pace, breathing hard, needing just a few minutes alone-

“John! Wait!”

* * *

 

Now that he had John’s attention, Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He was frozen with fear.

John stood there, staring at him, waiting on Sherlock to say something.

But.

The words just wouldn’t come.

“I…” Sherlock’s throat suddenly closed up, choking him. He struggled for air. He’d had an entire speech prepared.

He couldn’t remember a word of it.

John looked concerned. He took a few steps down the hall toward him which did not help. Sherlock’s heart rate spiked. His hands were suddenly gross and clammy.

“Sherlock? What is it?” John asked. “Are you alright?”

“Um-huh…” Sherlock gulped around a dry throat. “Y-yes. Sorry. I’m fine. Very fine. I only w-wanted to…” He took a great, gasping breath and John looked even more concerned. He stepped closer, frowning. “I wanted to apologize.” Sherlock blurted in a rush and John drew up short.

“Apologize?”

“Yes.”

“What for?”

Sherlock hadn’t known that he would have to _explain_ , but it made sense. It was what Mummy always required from him when he apologized and it stood to reason that John would want to know exactly what Sherlock was sorry for. That way, there would be no misunderstandings between them.

“I wanted to apologize for embarrassing you in front of everyone because of my careless behavior. I shouldn’t have ridden in the procession out of Marseille. My mother was right. I’m not used to riding and I knew that if I rode for long I would injure myself…but I did it anyway. And I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. My actions as your betrothed exposed you to censure and derision and ridicule and you have every right to be angry with me.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” John asked, frowning. He cocked his head to the side and gave Sherlock an incredulous look. “You think that I’m angry with you? Over _you_ getting _hurt_?”

“No, not entirely. I know there’s more because I embarrassed you again when I pretended to faint at Eguisheim in front of everyone when they…when…that statue…” Sherlock trailed off, wishing he could hide the way he was blushing. “Nevertheless,” He continued formally, slipping into the practiced cadence his mother had drilled into him when dealing with Alphas, “it was wrong of me, not only because it made you look badly, but my fainting showed how immature and selfish I am, how stupid and irresponsible.” Mummy had often said the same thing and repeating the words back to John stung Sherlock’s pride, but he knew it had to be done. He wanted things to be better again- he wanted John to like him again. “You have every right to be angry with me, John. No Alpha wants their Omega to be a constant source of vexation and I-“

“Sherlock. Please stop talking.”

Sherlock’s mouth snapped closed.

John ran a hand over his face, scrubbing rather harder than looked comfortable, before dropping his hands and looking Sherlock up and down. “So, you thought. This whole time. That I was angry with you?”

Sherlock mutely nodded and John winced. He closed his eyes like the sight of Sherlock had caused him some sort of pain. He turned and started away from him, down the hall, and Sherlock’s heart plummeted. He’d done the wrong thing. He’d lost John. He’d only pushed him further away.

John suddenly turned around and strode back toward Sherlock, his hands clenched at his sides.

“You think I’m _angry_ with you?” He demanded, sounding so irritable and put out, like he was the one who had the right to be upset, that Sherlock’s hackles rose.

“Yes.” He said through clenched teeth. “You’ve been avoiding me. We haven’t had any of our sword fighting lessons since we left Marseille. You’ve barely said one word to me since the day of the procession. I know that you’ve been angry with me because why else have you not allowed me to go anywhere, or go on any of the outings-?”

“Not _allowed_ you to go-?”

“You _know_ I have to have permission,” Sherlock fired back, “but you haven’t wanted to be seen in public with me anymore-“

“That’s not true-“

“ _Yes, it is_! I haven’t seen you staying behind! You don’t want to be seen with me because I embarrass you and you hate me now!” Sherlock realized he was shouting at John and made an effort to lower his voice. He’d meant to be apologizing. “But you have every right to feel that way.” He forced himself to say but the words sounded bitter. “However, if you will forgive me I promise to do better in the future. I won’t do anything that embarrasses you or-“

“Stop! Just please. Stop.” John unexpectedly surged forward and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, towing him down the hall and Sherlock thrilled at the touch, stumbling along behind John who flung open a door at the end of the hall and pulled Sherlock inside, closing the door with a sharp snap behind them.

They were in a large, tastefully furnished parlor with high, arching windows set into the stone walls but that was all Sherlock noticed before he turned his attention back to John. John who had dropped Sherlock’s hand and whose throat was working as he visibly struggled to find the words he wanted to say.

“Sherlock. That.” He broke off, huffing with frustration. “All of that. What you just said. None of it…” He shook his head. “None of that was true.”

Sherlock waited for John to continue. He suddenly realized that the room was deserted and that he and John were all by themselves. It was just the two of them, stood only a few feet apart. Per the marriage contract, that wasn’t allowed.

Sherlock wasn’t about to remind John of that or voice a complaint.

 “I’ve not been angry with you.” John finally said. “I’ve been worried. Upset about what happened to you. But I wasn’t angry.”

“Then why…why have you…” Sherlock gestured vaguely, trying to wordlessly encompass all of the horrible things of the past few days, and John looked agonized. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

“Because…I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not your responsibility. It’s not supposed to be this way but…maybe I’m a bad Alpha. Maybe I shouldn’t be here because…I’m scared.”

The confession was so entirely unexpected that Sherlock didn’t know what to say. “What?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Sherlock.” Once the words were said, it was like unleashing a torrent. John talked faster and faster, Sherlock barely able to keep up. “I thought I was prepared to come here and get betrothed to you, but it’s more responsibility than I thought it would be. I thought I was a good Alpha. I was _raised_ to be a good Alpha, and I was fine until I met you and then I saw…you were so… _I don’t know what I’m doing._ I’m scared I’ll make a mistake and you’ll get hurt. And don’t tell me I’m wrong because it’s already happened. Twice. Once with the sword fighting and then again with the horseback riding. I made a mistake and you got hurt. It was my fault, not yours. I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of you and I can’t even do that right.”

John started pacing up and down the room. Sherlock sank onto a nearby sofa and watched his progress, arrested by the outpouring of emotion.

“I didn’t realize I needed to be so protective of you, to the point that you wouldn’t even tell me if there was a problem. I didn’t think that I had to watch your every move but…that was another mistake because apparently that’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s my job as your Alpha. As your Alpha patron. You’ve been raised to expect protection. You deserve nothing less. And I…I can’t do that for you.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond- which was fine. John wasn’t done talking.

“I’ve been acting like an idiot these last few days. I’ve tried to keep my distance from you because I didn’t think I was a good enough Alpha, and being around you reminded me of that and I felt so fucking angry and helpless…so I wanted to avoid seeing you. Every time I saw you it made my skin crawl. I’ve never had an Omega that was mine before and who I was responsible for, and I thought it would be fine. But that was another mistake.” John turned tormented eyes to Sherlock. He went to his knees in front of him, taking his hands in both of his. “I want to be the Alpha you deserve. Please, believe me. I’m not being terrible or neglectful on purpose. But I don’t know how to do that. Things are so different here than in Scotland. You’re so sheltered. I don’t know what’s allowed and what isn’t and what’s expected of me and where and when and…I didn’t even know that I had to give you permission to go on every single fucking outing on this Tour until you just told me. I hate that. I hate that you thought…and the whole time I should have been…I should have known…”

“You didn’t know.” Sherlock felt better knowing that John’s neglect hadn’t been intentional. Or rather- it had been intentional, but the depressing extent of it had not been.

“I didn’t.” John looked down at their hands, where their fingers were twined together. “I should have known, though. I should have realized that you’d hurt yourself horseback riding. I should have said something when they presented us that damn statue. But I didn’t because…I didn’t know what to do…I still don’t.”

They were silent for a time, each digesting John’s words, minds whirring at top-notch speed. It was quiet in the parlor. Isolated from everyone else, they could hear the distant chirp of birds and the occasional voice as someone called out to another, shouting instructions about such and such preparation. It was intimate, the contact cherished all the more for its rarity, and Sherlock allowed himself to enjoy it a while longer before he broke the silence.

“I’ve never had an Alpha patron. I don’t know what to do either, John” He admitted, and John seemed to deflate, slumping where he still knelt in front of Sherlock.

“I know.” He murmured. “It’s fine. It’s not up to you to figure out-“

“But perhaps we could figure it out together?”

“Together?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Together. You don’t know what you’re doing, and I certainly don’t either…but if we both try…and I won’t judge you and you won’t judge me because we’re both in the same situation together, and so we could do it all _together_ …” He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed at the way John was looking at him: as if he’d hung the sun and moon and stars and was now outlined by their radiance.

“That’s brilliant.” He breathed. “Sherlock. I’d love that.”

“You would?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Me too.” Sherlock smiled and John gave him a huge, relieved grin in return. Acting quickly and before he lost his nerve, Sherlock disentangled his fingers from John’s grip and, blushing, extended his wrist.

John laughed in the slightly hysterical way one does after going through an emotionally challenging moment, and took Sherlock’s hand the way he always had. He lowered his face and ran his nose along the thin skin of Sherlock’s inner wrist, inhaling as he went. It tickled and Sherlock squirmed, giggling. John flashed him a fond smile which made Sherlock squirm for an entirely different reason.

“You don’t have to do that, if you don’t want.” He said, self-conscious as John scented at his wrist again. “If you’d rather not or…if my scent is distasteful…”

“No, not at all.” John said. “I like your scent.”

“Oh.” Sherlock could see John’s blonde eyelashes fluttering atop his cheeks and smell the faintest whiff of his scent. He scooted closer, to the edge of the sofa. “I like your scent, too.” His heart was pounding in his chest, almost making him lightheaded. “John…” He wet his drip lips and scooted even closer, sick with fear that he would be rejected. In all likelihood, he would be. “It’s been a long week. Hasn't it?"

“Yes…” John agreed cautiously. Sherlock wondered if he’d already guessed what he wanted.

Familial scentings were commonplace. Mummy’s scentings were rare but Father scented him every morning before breakfast. Mycroft scented him of a morning and night, and sometimes whenever he saw him throughout the day. It was an everyday expression of their love, and their bond, and Sherlock always felt happy and loved and safe when his family scented him.

He wanted that from John too.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” He began in a shaking voice, “but if you wouldn’t mind…” Sherlock trailed off, thinking of the horrible week they’d both endured. He thought of watching John with another Omega, watching as she pressed herself against him and whispered in his ear. He thought of being left behind while everyone else- John included- went ahead without him and had fun. He thought of being ignored, feeling like no one wanted him. He thought of the distance John had kept between them and the fear that he’d ruined everything. He thought of the multitude of things he’d wanted to say to John, places he’d wanted to show him, thoughts and feelings and opinions that had gone unsaid because they hadn’t been speaking.

“Would you please…?” Sherlock couldn’t ask for what he wanted. It felt different to do this with John. He didn’t know why. It just did.

John was frowning, eyes darting between each of Sherlock’s own, but Sherlock held his gaze, steady. He wasn’t asking for anything wrong. He’d seen Alpha patrons scent their Omegas before. Scentings were important for both an Alpha and Omega. It soothed and comforted. It reaffirmed a bond and confirmed for each of them that they were wanted. He and John were family, after a fashion, and there was nothing preventing him from giving Sherlock a scenting.

John must have reached the same conclusion as Sherlock because he slowly...slowly... _slowly_ leaned forward, propping himself up with his hands on the sofa, giving Sherlock plenty of time to stop him.

Sherlock had no intention of stopping him.

He watched as John came closer and Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed when he was inches away, stomach twisting, wondering what John would do. What would happen. How their first scenting would take place. It was important. A monumental moment in both their lives. Sherlock had always wondered how his first scenting with an Alpha who wasn't a member of his family would go- although, he amended, John _was_ family. Just... _distant_ family. _Not-quite-yet_ family.

Still.

He gasped when John rubbed his cheek against his, slightly prickly and scraping against Sherlock’s smooth skin. John paused and then gentled his touch, rubbing again and again, up and down from Sherlock's forehead to his chin in a constant, relaxing pattern.

It was very nice. Pleasant.

Sherlock took a shaky breath and John’s scent flooded through him, leaving him weak and sated and happy. Relieved. All the stress of the previous week melted away and he inhaled again, bringing his hands up to rest lightly on John’s shoulders. John’s breath gusted over his ear as he exhaled and Sherlock shivered-

John swiftly pulled away. Sherlock’s hands dropped away from his shoulders as John stood and moved away from him, putting space between them and going so far as to take a seat on a low settee in the corner of the room.

He laughed uncomfortably, giving Sherlock a small smile. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled back and he wondered if he looked as dopey as he felt. His first scenting with a _not-quite-yet_ family member had been _fantastic_. “I feel much better. You?”

“Uh. Yeah. I’m alright.” John took a deep, deep breath. He cleared his throat, casting his eyes about the room. The tips of his ears were red.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“We’re going to do things together now, right?”

“Mmhm.”

“And talk about things?”

“Yes…”

“Then I need to tell you something.” The scenting, as brief as it had been, had raised Sherlock’s confidence in John and he knew that he had to tell him about- “Your uncle. Lennox. I’m afraid he will be very angry with me.”

“Why would he be angry with you?”

“He came and talked to me earlier this week, at Eguisheim. It was after everyone had left on a picnic and it was just me at the castle. He could see how upset I was and since he knew you and I were not getting along…he offered me lessons. Only now that you and I have decided to do this together, I don’t want his lessons anymore, but I don’t know how to tell him without offending him.”

John leaned forward on the settee. “What kind of lessons did he offer you?”

“Lessons on how to teach me to better please you.” Sherlock chirped and across the room, John went very, very still. He stood up, an unreadable expression on his face.

“He did what?”

Sherlock repeated himself, not understanding why John was looking at him like that. He explained to John everything Lennox had said to him, and by the time he was done, John had gone quiet.

“Are you very angry with me?” Sherlock asked worriedly. He and John had just started getting along again. He didn’t want the Alpha mad at him again. “I only agreed because I wanted to do something nice for you, John. I never would have otherwise."

“No. I’m not angry with you.” John sat beside him on the sofa, perching as far away from him as he could. “My uncle…you said that you didn’t get any lessons from him?”

“No. We didn’t have the time at Carcassonne.”

“So he didn’t…I mean there was no…you never spent time alone with him?”

Sherlock shook his head, wondering what John was getting at. “We were only together just the once, at Eguisheim. But we played board games the whole time in the library.”

“Right. So, my uncle…he never touched you? At any time?”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock bit his lip. “Well. He held my hand, but that only happened once. He was helping me down the stairs. I don’t think your uncle meant anything rude by his offer. He only wanted to help me.”

John laughed, but it sounded bitter. Sherlock didn’t like the sound of it. “I’m sure he did.”

Sherlock hesitated. “John?”

“Hm?”

“I’d rather _you_ give me lessons on how to please you, instead of Lennox.”

John passed a hand over his mouth and for a moment Sherlock thought he looked sick. Then the moment passed and he gave Sherlock a weak smile. “What kind of lessons do you think you need?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Just general things about you. We’re only just getting to know each other and I don’t know what your favorite dish is. Your favorite dessert. How do your prefer your eggs? Is burnt toast your favorite, or do you prefer more bread? I know your hobbies and what you like to do in your free time, but what sort of books do you enjoy? I learned everything I could about Villemoustaussou so I could act as your tour guide and show you the parts I thought you’d like.” He confessed, and he hoped John didn’t think he was silly. “But there's so much more. What musical arrangements are your favorites? What are your views on land taxation or providing food for the peasants? There’s so many things I need to learn about you, to better please you…”

“I’m well-pleased already. You’re perfect just the way you are.” John ruffled Sherlock’s hair, suddenly looking much happier, and Sherlock preened at the compliment. “C’mon. Everyone will be wondering where we’ve gotten off to. I’m pretty sure this violates some part of the betrothal contract.” He added wryly and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but allowed John to pull him off the sofa and followed him toward the door. He was happier than he'd been in a while and, as he and John walked down the hallway together, chatting like friends again, he allowed himself to forget about John's solemn silence when he'd told him about Lennox, putting the incident entirely from his mind.  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it: the end of this installment.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Lennox being a creep, perverted language/conversation with a minor, violence, threats of extreme violence

Lazy kisses pressed against the back of his neck and Mycroft was smiling before he even opened his eyes. Warm and snug in his own bed, there was a familiar arm slung around his waist which tightened to hold him closer, invisible lips leaving trails of heat which trickled down his spine.

It was almost too hot beneath the covers where he and Gregory were tangled together. It was still early but Northumbrian summers could be miserable, and the temperatures rose before the sun most days. Mycroft could feel the greasy slip of sweat sliding between them and soaking into the sheets, creating a sticky barrier which made him wrinkle his nose in disgust, but he didn’t want to disturb the quiet intimacy.

Teeth gently tugged at the lobe of his ear before a rough voice murmured, “Mornin’, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t morning yet. Mycroft’s bedroom was still dark; only the barest traces of grey were lightening the eastern sky, but Gregory had to leave. He couldn’t be caught in Mycroft’s rooms, or be seen sneaking away. People were likely to talk.

“I love you, Mycroft.”

The words were the sharpest pain Mycroft had ever felt, and the most blissful pleasure imaginable. A kaleidoscope of butterflies took flight beneath his ribs, beating their wings and fluttering around his heart so that he almost couldn’t draw breath.

“I l-love you…too.” Saying the words made him blush. The newness of expressing his feelings and actually having them returned made Mycroft self-conscious. He didn’t trust this. It wasn’t real and if it was, it was destined to end poorly. Gregory would come to his senses and realize he wasn’t in love with a frigid Omega prince who could offer him nothing. Until that happened, though, Mycroft was determined to enjoy every moment with his Alpha.

“I have to go.” Gregory said apologetically, and Mycroft buried his face in the pillows, groaning his unhappiness. “I know. I’m sorry…I wish I could stay.”

Mycroft squirmed, rolling onto his back. He was barely able to see Gregory in the dim light, but the Alpha looked torn, just as unhappy as Mycroft at having their time together cut short. Mycroft strained up and pulled Gregory into a kiss. He half-expected him to resist, to say they didn’t have time, but Gregory eagerly kissed him back, moving over Mycroft with practiced grace and supporting himself on his elbows so he wouldn’t crush him. Gregory smeared their lips together, heavy breaths mingling, and Mycroft ran his hands over Gregory’s back, grasping at him in case he suddenly decided to leave. He could feel how hard Gregory was, his cock pressing alongside Mycroft’s own, and he tangled his fingers in Gregory’s hair, awkwardly rutting against him.

Gregory sagged against Mycroft, a heavy weight pinning him to the bed. “Gods, Mycroft, I want…can I please-”

“Yes.” Mycroft responded, not caring what Gregory meant. He was sure that he’d love anything the Alpha did- and when Gregory raised up, spreading Mycroft’s legs and then re-settling between them, he _knew_ that he would like what came next.

Neither of them heard the discreet knock at the door over the pounding of their hearts, the rush of blood in their veins, and the shocked and pleasured gasp Mycroft gave when Gregory thrust his way inside him, stretching him and filling him up-

_“Oh, my gods!”_

The men froze at the scandalized exclamation. In the brief seconds before he realized who had walked in on them, Mycroft saw the rest of his life stretching out before him: Gregory being removed from his room, taken away from him forever. Rumors. Being punished by his mother. Ruining everything for Sherlock. Married off to some horrible Alpha. Sherlock being sent away. Never seeing Gregory again. A life of misery-

“Oh, please, don’t stop on my account, Your Highness. I didn’t expect you to still be in bed or I never would have disturbed you. I must say, you’re certainly staying abed later than usual this morning…but I suppose you have something there to keep you occupied.”

Mycroft peered over Gregory’s broad shoulder and met the bright, twinkling eyes of Mrs. Hudson. She clutched a stack of clean linens to her chest and looked like she was trying to keep herself from laughing.

“Mrs. Hudson…you…”

“Please, Your Highness, there’s no reason to explain. I’ve lived a full life. I’ve certainly spent my own share of late mornings in bed with an Alpha.” Mrs. Hudson’s smile was indecent for a woman over fifty. “Good morning, Captain Lestrade.”

Gregory cleared his throat, doing his best to rally, and Mycroft was horribly aware that Gregory’s penis was _still inside him._

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft wanted to die. He was certain that he was going to drop dead from pure mortification.

"Don’t mind me.” Mrs. Hudson strode further into the room as if there were not two men only five feet from her in the very middle of having sex. “I’ll just put these behind the screen. You’ll probably need them to clean afterwards.”

Mycroft hid his burning face in Gregory’s shoulder but was dislodged when Gregory unceremoniously pulled out and flung himself down on the bed as soon as Mrs. Hudson disappeared behind the privacy screen. Mycroft didn’t think he’d ever seen his Captain so discomposed.

“Mycroft. I’m sorry- I didn’t-“

“Please do not speak.” Mycroft hissed. He pulled the covers up to his chin, wanting to pull them all the way over his head and hide from the entire situation. His pride wouldn’t let him act so childish. He wished that it would.

“It was lovely to see you, Captain Lestrade,” Mrs. Hudson continued, bustling back out into the room, “and while I’m sure that you’re starving after such an energetic start to your morning, I would bring your breakfast in with His Highness’ but the above stairs maids are on their way up and you’ll only have a few more minutes before your escape is compromised.”

“Yes, I- I will leave.” Gregory managed, his voice strangled. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“You’re more than welcome.” She beamed at them and Mycroft stared fixedly at the ceiling. She was doing this on purpose. He didn’t think he would ever be able to look at Mrs. Hudson again. “I’ll return with your tea.” She bobbed a curtsy- just to be cheeky, Mycroft thought- and as soon as she was gone, Mycroft melted against the bed with relief.

“That was terrible.”

Mycroft felt that was an understatement and would have corrected Gregory, but at the moment he didn’t think he was physically able to speak.

“If she’s coming back with your tea, I better hurry and dress.”

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise and flung an arm over his face while Gregory bounced from the bed and retrieved his clothes from where they’d been thrown them the previous evening. They were strewn all around the room and Mycroft’s blush deepened when he realized that Mrs. Hudson would have seen the tell-tale trail leading from the doorway to Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft’s soul crept that much closer to death.

“Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“Is she going to tell the Queen?”

Mycroft didn’t remove his arm from across his eyes. “What?”

“Mrs. Hudson. Is she going to tell your mother about us?”

“Oh. No. She’s already assured me that she wouldn’t.”

“When did she say that?”

Mycroft lowered his arm and looked across the room to the shadowy outline of Gregory doing up his trousers. “A few weeks ago, actually. Um…She already knew we were together. So this morning wasn’t…a complete surprise.”

“She did?”

“Yes.” Mycroft wondered if Gregory would be upset. He hadn’t told the Alpha that Mrs. Hudson knew about their relationship and perhaps he would think it was a breach of trust. Although, it hadn’t technically been Mycroft’s fault that Mrs. Hudson had found out. Mycroft didn’t want to explain _how_ Mrs. Hudson had found out. Until this morning, that had been the reigning most embarrassing moment of his life.

“How did she know? Did you tell her?” Gregory asked. “Not that I would mind, it’s just I would have liked to know…”

Mycroft chose his words with care. “No, I certainly didn’t tell her. She found out for herself. It was the same evening as our first rendezvous in my bedroom. If you remember. She found evidence of our…uhm, _activities_.”

“Evidence?”

Mycroft was resigned that he was apparently destined to be humiliated all day long. “On my bed sheets she found…your…um, your spendings.”

“My spendings.” Gregory repeated blankly, not understanding- and then his face morphed with the horror of comprehension. “No- you mean my-“

“Yes.”

“Oh, my gods …Oh, gods above.” Gregory buried his face in his hands. Mycroft silently sympathized. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look her in the face again.”

“You’ve been looking her in the face for weeks since then and been none the wiser.” Mycroft pointed out, but this was the wrong thing to say. Gregory looked even more appalled. “I’m sorry. I should have told you-“

“Yes, you bloody should have-“

“-but I didn’t know how it would have helped! She already knew. There was nothing either of us could have done to change it, and I thought it was better for just me to be humiliated instead of you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she still knew. You should have told me.” Gregory sighed. “I don’t know what to say. I wish you had told me.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to ask if Gregory was mad at him, to apologize and beg forgiveness- but a loud knock at the door caused them both to jump. Gregory threw on his cloak and hurried to the door, slipping out past Mrs. Hudson without looking at her, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, flushed red up to the tips of his ears.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into that young man.” She said, smirk still in place. “Here you go, dear.”

Mycroft eyed the steaming cup of tea suspiciously. “I believe apologies are in order.”

He didn’t think he needed to apologize. He’d been in his own room, in his own bed, and Mrs. Hudson had been the one to intrude. All the same, he felt a need to smooth the situation over.

“I’m sorry for…that.”

“It’s quite alright. Getting a glimpse of Captain Lestrade’s pert arse first thing in the morning isn’t the worst way to start my day.”

Mycroft scalded his tongue with an overlarge sip of his tea, but it luckily saved him from having to respond.

Mrs. Hudson went about setting the room to rights while Mycroft dragged himself reluctantly out of bed and arranged his clothes and covered his scent glands with wax patches. The air between them was thick. Mycroft was on tenterhooks, waiting for-

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut in resignation. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson?”

“I know I twitted you earlier about catching you in bed with the Captain, but I know you’re usually very discreet with your relationship.”

Mycroft didn’t respond. He had a terrible feeling there was more she wanted to say.

“But even when you’re being careful, accidents like this morning are bound to happen. I’ve given the situation a lot of thought and…I think it would be helpful if you had an Omega’s maid.”

“You know I can’t have an Omega’s maid.” Mycroft said scornfully. Of all he’d thought Mrs. Hudson would say, such an asinine idea hadn’t been it.

“It would be an odd look, but it’s already odd that you, a Prince of Northumbria, don’t have anyone to assist you in dressing and carrying your messages and keeping up with your things. Not even a valet.”

Mycroft knew she was right. People had been surprised when Queen Holmes first announced that she would employ no body servants for her eldest son, explaining that she wanted to teach Mycroft independence and instill in him a sense of responsibility. It was a major break from tradition and an egregious breech in what was considered correct protocol. Nobles employed body servants. Even non-royal, well-to-do families engaged valets and Omega maids for themselves. As much as they could afford. People had looked askance. But it was accepted that Prince Mycroft was peculiar now, and the fact that he did everything himself, and didn’t have body servants, was just another of his eccentricities.

It would be nice to have someone, though, Mycroft thought. There would be less work for him and less of a headache in general. It would make things easier on Mrs. Hudson- who constantly reminded him that she was not his personal maid but who still did his laundry and the more intimate tasks assigned to his bedroom. Body servants were the most trusted individuals, party to all of their employer’s schemes, and besides the dressing and wardrobe and messages, they assisted in clandestine meetings and concealed the evidence of any affair, as well as were a fountain of information on how to carry out said affairs. Mycroft had never regretted his lack of a body servant. He’d trundled along just fine…until now.

Because Mrs. Hudson was right: if he had one, they would have been at his door that morning, turning away anyone who would have dared disturb he and Gregory before they were ready. Or they would’ve whispered through the door that the servants were up and Captain Lestrade needed to look smart. Messages could be sent with them informing Gregory of when and where they would meet, instead of the two of them trying to arrange secret meetings in public, in front of hundreds of eyes watching their every move.

Mycroft sighed. It was a pointless avenue of thought.

“You know I cannot have any body servants.”

“Perhaps not just any body servant…but…I have a niece,” Mrs. Hudson began cautiously, “who I think would be perfect for you as a maid.”

Mycroft didn’t even pause to consider the idea. “No.”

“She’s a good girl. She was raised to have the proper respect and knows what’s what. She’s very trustworthy.”

“You may have my family’s trust but that does not extend to all the rest of your relatives.” Mycroft felt bad when hurt flashed across Mrs. Hudson’s face. “I’m sure you know your niece and I’m sure she’s a good girl,” He said as gently as he could, softening his voice, “but no matter how trustworthy she is, I’m not willing to employ her as a maid and allow her to discover what I am, then have her sell that information to the highest bidder, or extort my family for money in order to keep silent.” Mycroft knew he was insulting Mrs. Hudson’s niece, but he continued, knowing he was right. “I can only imagine what someone could do with that information, the havoc they could wreak, and I am not going to jeopardize Sherlock’s safety in Northumbria for my own convenience and leisure.”

There was a strained silence after this declaration. Mycroft wished he hadn’t upset Mrs. Hudson- she was only trying to help- but the idea was ridiculous. Totally out of the question.

“You know best, of course.” She replied, stiff and formal. “But I think you’re looking at the situation the wrong way around.”

Mycroft raised a skeptical brow.

“People would _clamor_ at the chance to be your maid. They would have done, if your mother hadn’t already discouraged them.” She warmed to the topic and Mycroft could tell she’d given this a lot of forethought. “Any body servant of yours would have immediate prestige and rank. Wealth and connections. The life you lead is exciting, Mycroft. You live in Marseille and travel all over the country- even outside the country- and meet with the most interesting people. Your body servant would be a part of that, would go on adventures they would never otherwise be able to, and have the ear and trust and respect of the most influential man in Northumbria. Who could be bribed in such a position?”

Mycroft thought Mrs. Hudson was being naïve, and the look he gave her was eloquent enough that she bristled.

“I know what I’m talking about, Mycroft Holmes! I know the way of servants better than you do. You’ve been brought up in all of this,” She waved her hand around the room, taking in the vaulted ceiling, large open windows, expensive furnishings, and glinting frescoes with gilt all around the edges, but Mycroft knew she meant more than just what could be seen, “and you don’t realize how precious it is. A person doesn’t want to be buried out in the country somewhere but here. Surrounded by people. In the middle of everything. And a servant is known by the household they serve. No one wants to serve a foul master or mistress unless they’re foul themselves- and they get a reputation for it even if they aren’t. Good places are hard to come by, and to be a servant in the royal household is an honor of the highest esteem.”

“I don’t argue with that.” Mycroft said. “But I disagree that a servant would be above reproach, or bribery, simply because they were serving in the royal household. Even nobles can be bought and paid for.”

Mrs. Hudson tsked at Mycroft and he suddenly felt about 12 years old. “Of course they can. Even in the lap of luxury, men can be greedy. What I’m saying is that my niece would be above reproach.”

Mycroft demurred, not wanting to further offend her, and finished off his tea, checking once more in the mirror to make sure he was presentable. He was not taking on an Omega’s maid. He didn’t have faith in this niece of Mrs. Hudson’s. People were blind when it came to their families.

“She could run your errands for you. Fetch and carry. Tend to your bedding. Draw your baths.” Mrs. Hudson listed, determined not to give up. “Have your clothes laid out and pressed. Make sure that handsome Captain of yours isn’t seen coming or leaving your bedroom...”

“Mm.”

“Well. Think about it.” She curtseyed and moved to leave and Mycroft almost let her go before curiosity got the better of him.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes?”

“Not that I have any intention of hiring her, but…what is your niece’s name?”

Mrs. Hudson brightened. “Anthea. Her name is Anthea.” 

* * *

 

“Good morning, darling.”

The unexpected voice, whispering right in his ear, made Sherlock start and whirl around on the stairs. His heart was in his throat and he grasped the bannister for support.

The Duke of Lennox held out his hands, trying to appear harmless, and had the decency to look abashed. “I apologize for scaring you. I thought you heard me coming.”

“No. I was thinking.” Sherlock gave him a weak smile. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

“It’s a _very_ good morning now that I’ve seen you.” Lennox’s smile widened and he offered Sherlock his arm. “What were you thinking that had you so preoccupied?”

Sherlock, wondering if he should decline the offer, slipped his hand into the crook of Lennox’s arm and allowed the Alpha to escort him down the stairs. “Nothing important.” He said, diffident, and was afraid that Lennox would press the issue, but he didn’t, and they descended a few more flights in relative ease. Sherlock was just beginning to relax when Lennox, after glancing around to make sure they were alone, leaned closer.

“My mind has been preoccupied lately, too. Do you want to know what about?”

“If Your Grace wishes to tell me.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone else, but…I trust you, Sherlock.” Lennox’s eyes sparkled, and despite himself, Sherlock felt an answering warmth of flattery in his chest. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking…about you.”

Sherlock blinked. “ _Me_?”

“Of course, you. I was struck by you from the moment I arrived in Marseille, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you since. Your beauty. Your wit. The way you carry yourself, unlike any other Omega I’ve ever known. Your courage in the face of my nephew’s heartless inattention.” He shook his head, lips thinning down in disapproval. “Forgive me if I am too forward, but since we are going to be family, I feel that I can speak freely.” Lennox paused, giving Sherlock a chance to respond, but he was at a total loss.

He didn’t know what the correct thing to say was. He didn’t know if he should encourage Lennox (after all, they were family) or discourage him (telling Sherlock that he’d been thinking of him felt…wrong, somehow). He wondered what John would want him to do and wished the Alpha were there. They hadn’t talked about John’s uncle since Sherlock’s confession yesterday, and he didn’t know what John would prefer.

Lennox took Sherlock’s silence as agreement and continued.

“I thought perhaps you could spend the day with me, darling. I would do my best to entertain you in whatever way you wished. You’re the only person in this entire country which I care to spend time with. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of my nephew and his bevy of Omegas.” Lennox rolled his eyes. “And,” He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, his lips brushing the curls over Sherlock’s ear and making him want to pull away, “it would be an ideal time to start your lessons.”

Sherlock’s stomach swooped with nerves. He’d been hoping to avoid this conversation, hoping John would take care of it for him. “Oh…”

“We will meet in this lovely little music room I found yesterday. No one will disturb us there. It’s far away from anyone else. You will have me to yourself the rest of the afternoon. While John is out wooing other Omegas, you and I will become much more… _intimately_ acquainted.”

“I thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but…” Sherlock took a deep breath and spoke in a quick rush, trying to get it all out at once. “I will have to decline. John and I have made up and he says that from now on I’ll be getting all my lessons from him.”

Lennox was silent. Sherlock risked a glance up at him and thought, for a split second, that the Alpha was going to slap him. Then Lennox’s face cleared and he gave Sherlock an indulgent smile, patting Sherlock’s hand where it still rested in the crook of his arm, and Sherlock wondered if he had imagined the other look.

“Of course, Sherlock. I understand completely. John is your Alpha Patron and the two of you will one day be married. It’s only right that he should be the one to give you lessons.”

Sherlock smiled with relief. That had been easy. Perhaps he had misjudged the Duke of Lennox. “Thank you for being so understanding, Your Grace.”

“No need to thank me. I only care about your happiness. John will be an excellent teacher, and I’ll admit that I applaud this course of action you’re taking. Not every Omega would be so daring when it comes to their Alpha, but you’re not like the others. Good for you.” Lennox patted Sherlock’s hand again. “Shall we continue down to breakfast?”

But breakfast was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind. His attention was caught.

“What do you mean? Not every Omega would be so daring?”

“Hm?” Lennox appeared puzzled. “Oh, simply that John may get tired of continually accommodating your innocence and the vast magnitude of what you don’t know. He may lose his patience. It would drive any Alpha mad, really…” Lennox paused delicately. “But I’m sure you know best.”

Sherlock suddenly couldn’t breathe. It was stifling in the immense hallway, his tight collar choking him, and he stopped walking, his hand falling away from Lennox’s arm. The Alpha turned to him with a concerned expression.

“Sherlock-?”

“Surely there’s not so much I don’t know…” Sherlock began, but Lennox shook his head.

“Of course there is. However, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, Sherlock. It’s not your fault. Your brother and mother have both done their best to protect you.” He stepped closer, voice low, and Sherlock was aware that they were all alone. It felt awkward, but it would be rude to move away from the Duke. Wouldn’t it? “There are things an Omega like you should know about presenting yourself to an Alpha which you cannot possibly comprehend. There are things you could never imagine that an Alpha needs, things of which you have not heard so much as a whisper. They have never taught you how to properly treat an Alpha, have they? How to make them happy and thrill them? It’s why there is so much conflict between yourself and John, why the two of you are continually estranged. Your mother and brother have done you a great disservice, Sherlock, and you’ll be such an annoying innocent for my nephew. John will have to teach you everything.”

Sherlock didn’t understand anything of what Lennox was saying and it made him blush, angered and frustrated and upset. Because what if Lennox was right? What if he really didn’t know anything?

“But John offered. He said that…he said…”

“Well, he _would_ , wouldn’t he? My nephew is a wonderful young man, and he may be a doting Alpha Patron,” Lennox shrugged as if he didn’t quite believe this. “His heart is in the right place, but eventually he will get tired of explaining literally everything to you. He’s young and impetuous, and young Alphas aren’t known for being _patient_.” Lennox said, raising his eyebrows in a significant way, and Sherlock was dying to know what he meant by that. “He’ll become exasperated with you…and then you’ll disgust him. Your best efforts won’t be enough. He’s too young to do the thing properly. He’ll start to seek out other Omegas. Again.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. His thoughts were disorganized chaos and no matter how much he tried to gather them, it was impossible. It didn’t seem right, what Lennox was saying. John had wanted to help him- but Lennox knew his nephew better than Sherlock did- and if he thought that John would get annoyed, then he was probably right- but John should know that Sherlock knew next to nothing and surely he wouldn’t be bothered by it-

“I’ve upset you.” Lennox grasped at Sherlock’s hands, thumbs sweeping over the backs of his knuckles. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Please forgive me. I’m sure John knows what is best for you…but I worry for you. So much.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hands. “Your happiness is important to me, like no one else’s ever has been before. I don’t want to see you get hurt and if you would let me, I would…but no. I couldn’t.”

“What?” Sherlock tightened his hold on Lennox. At the moment, it felt like the only anchor as the ground slipped away beneath his feet. Just when he’d thought that things were fine between himself and John, when he’d finally been happy and content, everything seemed to be crashing down and he was full of doubt. If Lennox really cared for him, and was willing to help, then Sherlock would leap at the chance.

“I wouldn’t want to undermine my nephew.” Lennox wavered, looking torn. “You are too delicate and I worry about upsetting you further.”

“You won’t upset me further. Please?”

* * *

 

Lennox smothered a smile at Sherlock’s obvious distress. This was _too_ easy. Honestly, Lennox didn’t understand how his nephew had any difficulty with his stupid little betrothed.

Sherlock was so innocent, so trusting and naïve, it was easy to lead him where one wanted and get him to believe anything. Say a word here or there, drop him a few smiles, and he was like putty in one’s hands. Lennox had always prided himself on Omega flattery and he almost didn’t even have to try when it came to Sherlock. No Alpha had ever paid the little boy any sort of attention.

The simplest things worked.

He was ripe for the picking.

“Wouldn’t you rather surprise John by showing him how clever you are? Everyone says that you’re weak and ignorant- not that I believe them!” Lennox hurried to say, being so bold as to cup Sherlock’s cheek and he was amused when the little Omega’s eyes widened at the impropriety but he didn’t pull away. “But you could put them all to shame, dazzle John with how sophisticated and confident you are. He could be yours, to lead around by the nose and have him yearning after you. He’d never look at another Omega again…and I could help you do that. I would do everything in my power to help you.”

Lennox waited for Sherlock’s acceptance. He already knew what the little boy would say, and he schooled his features so he wouldn’t grin in triumph when Sherlock said-

“Yes, please. I accept. Please, help me.”

“If you insist. Of course I will, darling.” Lennox kissed the back of Sherlock’s hand, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary. “It will be my pleasure.”

* * *

 

Sherlock felt guilty for keeping a secret from John.

He almost told him a hundred times over breakfast, and then throughout the rest of the day the confession was on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, ready to leap out and absolve him from the heavy guilt he was carrying. But something always stopped him.

Maybe it was the easy way John acted with him now, touching Sherlock’s hands when he helped him up and down from a horse, or to leap across a brook, or brought him something to look at. It could have been the way John grinned and laughed with him, teasing him and telling jokes, and Sherlock didn’t want to ruin that. They hadn’t had a happy day together in so long and Sherlock was enjoying himself. He didn’t want it to end. It was selfish, doubly so when he knew that the only reason he didn’t want to tell John about Lennox and the lessons was that John would probably put a stop to them and Sherlock wanted to learn. He wanted to dazzle John with how brilliant he could be and keep John all to himself.

So Sherlock kept putting it off, promising himself that he would tell John that evening.

After dinner...

After the musicians finished the concert...

After one more dance...

After John scented at his wrist before bed…

It was while he was climbing into bed, worrying at his bottom lip, that Sherlock resolved he would tell John about Lennox the next morning. He really would.

He would tell him.

Maybe.

* * *

The next morning, Lennox was already at the training yard when Sherlock arrived.

John was delayed, kept up at the castle by an early morning meeting but scheduled to meet with Sherlock afterward, so Sherlock and the Duke had an hour to themselves (under the somewhat watchful eyes of the Prince’s Guard) to have Sherlock’s “lessons.”

Sherlock quickly became confused, and stayed that way the rest of the hour. He didn’t understand the curriculum. There didn’t seem to be one.

He and Lennox fenced, Lennox complimenting him on his thrust, politely asking if that was something John had taught him. When Sherlock said that John did, and that it had taken Sherlock ages to fully perfect the exact rhythm of thrust that John wanted, and that John had made him practice thrusts until he didn’t think his knees would support him any longer, Lennox looked very amused. Sherlock didn’t know what he’d said that was so funny.

But then, everything Sherlock said seemed to amuse Lennox.

“You obviously know how to handle a large instrument to achieve the most satisfying result.” Lennox observed. “Most Omegas your age wouldn’t know the right side up, but I can see my nephew’s instruction has been very influential. Did he take a hands-on approach?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He always corrected my grip on my sword, if that’s what you mean. I’d never even held a sword before he taught me how to do it. I was always told that Omegas weren’t allowed to even touch them.”

“That’s outdated thinking. Omegas shouldn’t be denied their own pleasure of a good romp. Do you practice often by yourself?”

“No.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “John says I’m not allowed to practice by myself, ever. I’m only allowed to touch a sword if he’s there with me. He says I’ll probably end up doing something wrong and hurting myself.” Which was absurd. Most of the practice swords were wooden, and even the ones which were made out of steel were _blunted_.

“Oh.” Lennox murmured, a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “Most Alphas are like that when it comes to their Omegas. That must leave you frustrated, though.”

“Yes.” Sherlock admitted. “But John never makes me wait long and we usually practice every day.” He tilted his head to the side when Lennox roared with laughter. It was always like that. Sherlock was very confused.

Lennox left the training yard before John arrived, chucking Sherlock under the chin and promising to return the next morning.

Sherlock would spend the rest of his day with John, training with swords and then gallivanting with the rest of the company on whatever outing had been prearranged. They ate too much, played too much, laughed too loudly. Sherlock got a sunburn across his nose which caused Mycroft to scold but which John said brought out the color of his eyes. Sherlock had never been so pleased to have a sunburn in his life, even when it started to peel.

Everything was wonderful.

The routine repeated itself over three days- three mornings of Lennox ostensibly “teaching” Sherlock something even though they never left the training yard and Sherlock left the “lessons” more baffled than ever, and then three afternoons of absolute bliss with John.

Everything came crashing down the morning of the fourth day.

* * *

 

Sherlock tossed his head, flinging sweaty hair out of his eyes and adjusted his grip on his sword. It was barely 9 in the morning and already the sun was beating down, making the day hot and sticky. He normally would have preferred to stay inside, in the cool shade of the castle where the heat hadn’t permeated the stones yet, with a breakfast of cream and fresh strawberries, warm bread and cold butter.

“Keep your guard up!” His arm jolted when his sword connected with Lennox’s, the sensation vibrating through his muscles.

“Very good.” Lennox praised. “I can see John’s instruction has been very beneficial.”

He didn’t give Sherlock a chance to reply. He disengaged and swung his sword up, cutting through the air almost faster than Sherlock could follow, and he was saved only by rolling to the side and coming up on his knees a few feet away. From there, he lunged, trading parries with Lennox until the older man broke away, grinning.

“I’ll take that grin off your face, Your Grace.”

Lennox laughed. “You could try. Your weapon is not so fierce.” He cast a glance at Sherlock’s sword. “It is a sword, in the form that all swords are, but it wasn’t made to thrust and pierce, not like mine was. Or John’s. John’s sword is much more substantial than your own, wouldn’t you say?”

“It looks the same to me.”

“They may _look_ the same now, darling, but you have not seen John’s sword when he is _roused_ …to fight. Then, it is a fearsome sight to behold.” Lennox swaggered his way across the yard to Sherlock and leaned closer. “He will stab you with it-“

Sherlock scoffed. “John would never stab me.” He didn’t know what the Duke was on about but after four mornings of feeling like he was being laughed at, he’d had about enough. “Besides, these are practice swords. He can’t.”

“I’m not talking about practice swords, my dear boy. I’m talking about real, flesh and blood _swords_.”

Sherlock scowled, wondering what he was talking about. Swords were not made of flesh and blood.

“It’s what I need to prepare you for. One day, John will stab you with his sword. He will _thrust_ deep, and you will feel as if you’re wounded-“

Sherlock took a step backward. He didn’t like what the Duke was saying, and he didn’t like the look in his eyes. He caught movement from his periphery and was relieved that he wasn’t alone with Lennox. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. John would never hurt me.”

“Yes, he will. And you’ll _want_ him to injure you. That’s the way Omegas are. It’s what they crave. The hurt will not be much, and it will be tempered by the pleasure of the encounter. I can show you, darling. You need not be scared. That way you know what to expect.”

Lennox had always seemed kindly, caring for Sherlock and taking him under his wing. Now, he was alarming. Sherlock was frightened. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Lennox, a baby bird caught in the gaze of a snake.

“Let me show you, so when John effects you there won’t be any pain. You’ll _want_ him to stab you, thrust deep, all the way to the hilt…and then you’ll ask for it again…and again…and again. An Omega always does once they’ve had an Alpha between their legs, and I doubt you’ll be any different once I-“

Sherlock was roughly knocked to the side as someone hurtled past him, throwing themselves at Lennox and sending the Alpha sprawling to the dirt. Sherlock staggered back, startled, and then everything was a confused jumble as people started shouting, boots pounded loud on the ground as everyone converged on him, swords and bucklers clanking, and rising above the commotion was John’s voice, strained as he grappled with his uncle-

“I’ll kill you, you fucking son of a bitch. I’ll kill you for talking to him-!”

* * *

 

“Go, go, go!”

“Hurry- run!”

“Get Lestrade, get Lestrade!”

“Get the Captain!”

“Hurry- go! Go!”

“Get the Captain, get the Captain-!”

The sudden cacophony of raised voices and frightened shouting from the training yard outside was ear-splitting and Greg was already up and out of his seat and halfway across his small office when the door swung open. Dimmock, red-faced and out of breath, clung to the doorframe, looking as flustered as Greg had ever seen him.

“Captain! We don’t know what to do!”

“What’s happening?”

“It’s the Alpha Prince!” Dimmock gasped, voice vibrating with anxiety. “Sir. We don’t know what to do!-“

“What’s. Happening.” Greg repeated firmly, trying to impart some semblance of calm to his Lieutenant- but Dimmock was having none of it.

“The Alpha Prince!” He gestured frantically and if the situation didn't seem so dire, Greg would have taken him to task for beckoning at his Captain like he was a common foot soldier. As it was, he let the gesture slide. For the moment. “He’s trying to kill his uncle.”

Good.

That was Greg’s first thought.

Good riddance to the fucking trash, was his second, and he suddenly wasn’t in much of a hurry to go outside and prevent John Watson from potentially killing the Duke of Lennox.

“What do you mean?” He wanted to get the full story- and maybe give John more time to run the bastard through- before charging outside to prevent it.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? He’s killing his uncle!” Dimmock shouted. “He’s killing him!”

Greg sighed. He supposed it would ruin the Royal Tour if the Duke was murdered on only their third leg, the first month not even halfway over. While Mycroft would probably feel the same way Greg did about the Duke’s demise, the fallout would be a headache for him to deal with. Greg didn’t want that to happen.

So he finally relented, motioning to Dimmock, and they started down the short hallway which led outside.

“Why’s he trying to kill him?”

“I don’t know.”

“There has to be a reason.”

While John didn’t seem too fond of his uncle, he was always dutiful and never talked back, deferring to Lennox as if he still outranked him and biting his tongue no matter how irritated he was. For John to lose his temper and actually attack his uncle…

Dimmock shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. There’s been nothing out of the ordinary-Well. The Alpha’s been late to the training yard every morning this week, but he’s been in meetings with the Prince up at the castle. He hasn’t seemed bothered by it. Neither’s the Crown Prince. And the Duke’s came and kept him company while he waited for the Alpha to show up. Every morning. They’ve got along great. Talked. Laughed. The Duke even showed him a few techniques-“

Greg stopped walking. “Lennox has been spending time with Sherlock?”

Dimmock, picking up the stress in Greg’s voice, looked even more worried. “Y-yes? We…we didn’t think anything of it, sir. We’ve not been told to keep the Duke away from the Crown Prince. I mean. Why would we? He’s the uncle of the Crown Prince’s betrothed…”

“What’s he done with him?”

“Who?”

“What’s Lennox done with Sherlock?” Greg growled, losing his patience and Dimmock jumped.

“Nothing! He’s only came and talked with him. We wouldn’t have let anything untoward happen, sir! I swear! He’s not even touched the Crown Prince. They’ve just talked- and the Crown Prince never seemed distressed…It-it-it’s why we don’t understand- this morning…the Duke was talking to the Crown Prince as he’s done all week and suddenly the Alpha Prince arrived and- without even stopping- he just jumped at him. Took his uncle to the ground. They’re fighting right now! Prince John said he was going to kill him-“

Greg pushed past Dimmock. “Where’s Sherlock now?”

“It’s why I came to get you, sir! We didn’t know what to do with him!” Dimmock hurried along behind him. “Donovan grabbed him up when the two Alphas started fighting- and we know we’re not supposed to touch him but it was necessary because he could have gotten pulled into the brawl- they’re all over the place-“

“Where is he now?”

“He’s still out there! We didn’t have time to-to- we needed you! We can’t separate the Alpha Prince and the Duke. It’s above our rank- but we knew you could-!”

Greg cursed, walking faster. He didn’t want Sherlock outside watching what he assumed was a very bloody, violent fight between two Alphas, one that could potentially- if they were very lucky, he amended in his head- end in Lennox’s death. But what worried him the most was the knowledge that John, always respectful, wouldn’t be trying to kill his own uncle without a very damn good reason. After hearing firsthand all the perverted things the Duke said to Mycroft,

Greg’s stomach dropped, cold dread spreading through him, when he imagined what Lennox could have said to Sherlock to make John want to kill him. But Sherlock was only a child. Surely the Duke wouldn’t-

Of course he fucking would, Greg thought grimly. The Duke was depraved. It wouldn’t matter to him if Sherlock were just a child. He’d loved saying things to Mycroft to watch him blush or noticeably flounder when he didn’t understand his sexual allusions. How much more fun would it be for him to say things to someone who wouldn’t understand anything he said, no matter how outrageous, who would respond innocently and not realize? And after what had happened between Lennox and Mycroft at the first stop at Eguisheim, the Duke testing his luck when he was finally away from the Queen, Greg wasn’t surprised that Lennox wanted to exact revenge-

Greg broke into a run, Dimmock hot on his heels. He flung the outside door open, stepping into the sun, and the raised voices immediately assaulted his ears.

It was a confusion of noise and movement all around, and he shoved his way to the front of the small group which had formed around the two Alphas. He pushed people aside without bothering to be nice, and took in the scene before him with wide eyes: Members of the Prince’s Guard stood around, gawping, surrounding the combatants who were on the ground, rolling, a blur of angry yelling and swinging fists. Dust rose in swirls around them. Blood droplets smeared on the ground. Greg could see that John’s sword was thankfully still on his side. He hadn’t drawn it yet. He didn’t even seem to remember he had it at the moment, instead doing his best to pummel his uncle with his fists, face drawn in a snarl.

Across the impromptu ring, Donovan had her arms wrapped around Sherlock’s chest to keep him safe and out of harm’s way. Sherlock was still holding his practice sword and both of them stared at the fighters, Sherlock’s eyes wide and mouth dropped open at the unexpected display of violence and blood the likes of which he’d never seen before.

“Fucking bastard cocksucker-“ Lennox struck his nephew with his fists as hard as he could, giving as good as he got, but John was undaunted. They rolled, over and over, John winding up on top, and he did his best to wrap his fingers around Lennox’s throat- then cried out, doubling over in pain when his uncle punched him in the side to prevent it. They rolled again-

“You son of a bitch!” John’s strained voice rose above the racket. “Make you wish you'd never looked at him- stay the fuck away from him-!”

Greg didn’t wait to hear more. He waded into the fray, called for Dimmock to help, and they started untangling the two Alphas, grappling with them. It was difficult. Neither was giving up. They were still punching and clawing and kicking at each other. John fought against Greg’s hold, straining towards his uncle.

“I’ll kill you for what you said- I’ll fucking kill you for what you said to him-!”

* * *

 

Sherlock clung to Sergeant Donovan’s arm which was keeping him well back from the fighting. Not that he had any intention of charging forward. His attention was fixed on the two Alphas, his heart pounding, and he thought he would be sick. He’d never seen real violence before, real blood smeared on the ground and on people’s faces, and he’d never seen John so angry, livid, snarling. It scared him.

And it was all because of him. That much was obvious. Sherlock didn’t understand exactly why, or what he had done, but he knew all of this was because of him. Something, somewhere, had gone horribly wrong.

Lennox bared his teeth. “You jumped up little twat.” Anderson and Dimmock placed restraining hands on his shoulders but he shook them off. They fell back, looking to Captain Lestrade for instructions. “You’re a pathetic excuse for an Alpha. Your father should have drowned you when he had the chance, like the worthless bitch’s useless cur that you are. You think your knot’s so fucking big you can stand up to me?”

“I know I can.” John shouted, doing his best to wrestle away from Captain Lestrade. “You’re fucking depraved. I didn’t believe it when Sherlock told me what you’d said- I thought he was mistaken. I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known.” John was wrapped in Captain Lestrade’s arms and it should have been an ignominious position, but John made it look dangerous, glaring daggers at his uncle. “I’ll kill you-“

“There’s no harm in a little talk, is there?” Lennox smirked and turned to look at Sherlock. He wanted to recoil from the look he saw in the older Alpha’s eyes. Donovan’s arms tightened, as if Lennox were about to rush at them. “It wasn’t as if he understood anything I said anyway. You know he didn’t.”

“That doesn’t matter.” John snarled. “You never should’ve-“

“I didn’t _do_ anything.” Lennox replied, turning back to his nephew. He lowered his voice so no one else could hear, but Sherlock still caught snatches of what he said. “Need to watch your little Omega…do better…little slut…could’ve had him…at anytime…on… knees…wouldn’t…known… the difference.”

Sherlock didn’t understand what Lennox meant, but John went white to the lips, staring at his uncle as if he’d never seen him before.

“Donovan!” Captain Lestrade barked, making Sherlock jump. “Get Sherlock out of here. Now.”

“Yes, sir!” Donovan tugged at Sherlock, forcing him to move, and he almost tripped over his feet. They hadn’t gone more than a few paces, though, when John’s voice arrested them.

“You’re a dead man.”

It would’ve been better, Sherlock later thought, if John had shouted his threats at Lennox. For some reason, the calm, unemotional way he stated his intentions chilled Sherlock to his very bones. He would keep it a secret, but he would have nightmares about what John said for weeks.

Lennox sneered, not realizing the danger he was facing. “Oh? Will you have me executed, nephew? Not only do you not have a shred of proof that I've done anything wrong, but I believe your father would have something to say about that.”

“No.” John stepped forward, and Captain Lestrade let him go. He advanced on his uncle, not shouting, but the entire yard had gone quiet and his words carried in the cavernous silence. “When you die, I’ll kill you myself with my bare hands. I’ll choke the life from your disgusting body until your soul ends up in hell where it belongs. But first I’ll make you suffer. I promise. You’ll beg me to kill you before I’m done.”

John smiled at Lennox, and Sherlock saw the Alpha shift nervously.

“First, I’ll cut your filthy tongue out of your head so all you’ll be able to do is scream when I have you emasculated for even thinking of what you wanted to do to Sherlock. You’ll be a knotless worm. Pathetic. I’ll have you paraded naked through the streets so everyone can see your shame and serve as a warning to what happens to people who insult my Omega. I’ll send you back home in pieces. The first will be those parts you aren’t Alpha enough to claim anymore. Then an arm, then a leg…and I’ll keep you alive so you’ll know what real suffering is…I’ll keep you alive until all that’s left to send back to Scotland is a head…You’ll be relieved the day I finally allow you to die. You’ll thank me for the mercy of killing you.”

There was an empty stillness after John finished speaking. Sherlock felt sick. He tasted bile at the back of his throat and he swallowed convulsively. There was a pounding in his head. He could feel the blood draining from his face.

Everyone waited. No one knew what John would do next. Lennox looked ready to bolt at the first sign, loathing and fear mixed on his face as he glared at his nephew.

“Leave Northumbria.” John commanded. “Don’t say a word. Don’t make an apology to me, or to Sherlock. Don’t even look at him. You’re not worthy. Sherlock is mine and this country is mine now, and you’re no longer welcome here. If you aren’t gone by sunset, I’ll show you that I always keep my promises and tomorrow you’ll be paraded through the streets…minus a few important bits.”

The Duke of Lennox seemed frozen to the spot, hands loose at his sides, unaware he was being given a merciful reprieve.

“Captain Lestrade.”

Lestrade moved to John’s side, bowing his head in the respectful way he always did Mycroft. “Your Majesty?”

John was momentarily thrown by the honorific. It wasn’t his title yet and wouldn’t be until he officially married Sherlock, but in front of the soldiers, it rang with importance. Sherlock watched people nudge each other, whispers breaking out like small fires.

“Captain Lestrade. Accompany the Duke to his chambers. Do not let him out of your sight while he packs and readies himself to leave. Then, have your soldiers escort him to his ship waiting in Nice and see that he boards the vessel.”

“I’ll see it done, Your Majesty.” Captain Lestrade bowed and started gesturing, barking orders, and the last sight Sherlock saw, as Donovan steered him away from the training yard, was John catching sight of him, looking distressed.

Sherlock didn’t understand why. There were so many things he didn’t understand. He didn’t even know where Sergeant Donovan was taking him. He hardly noticed the journey up to the castle or through the corridors. He put one foot in front of the other and didn’t even protest when Donovan took his hand and helped him along. All he could think of was John’s face, contorted in anger. The way he’d flown at his uncle, taking him to the ground. The words he’d said, the dreadful threats. The crushing knowledge that everything was somehow his fault.

Mrs. Hudson answered the door, took one look at Sherlock, and immediately enveloped him in a hug. “Oh, Sergeant Donovan- what’s happened?”

Sergeant Donovan spoke hurriedly, telling Mrs. Hudson everything she knew- which wasn’t much- while Mrs. Hudson made outraged noises, stroking at Sherlock’s hair and murmuring softly.

“Come on, dear. Let’s get you sat down and have a nice cuppa.”

Sherlock let himself be steered into the room, everything a blur, and was surprised when a warm cup of tea was pressed into his hands. He looked at it in confusion, only then noticing that he was sat on the side of his bed, feet dangling off the floor.

“Drink all of that, dear. It’ll make you feel better.”

Sherlock raised the cup to his lips, but his hands were shaking and the tea sloshed out, dripping onto his trousers. Mrs. Hudson tutted, whisking the cup away, and Sherlock was suddenly enveloped in Mrs. Hudson’s arms, head pressed against her breast. It was so familiar, so compassionate and comforting, that Sherlock screwed up his face to keep from crying. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to lose his head like some stupid Omega over a little excitement.

But he could still see John’s face. Hear his furious shouts. The horrible things he’d said to Lennox. Lennox, who Sherlock had thought was a good person. And all along Lennox had been…he’d…

“Ssshhh.” Mrs. Hudson petted at Sherlock’s curls while he sobbed. “It’s all right now, dear heart. Its all right. Your Alpha’s done a great job of keeping you safe, it sounds like.”

Had he? Sherlock didn’t know. He was too upset.

John had known. He’d known what was going on as soon as Sherlock told him about Lennox and his “private lessons”. He’d known and Sherlock hadn’t because he was too stupid and he hated-hated-hated being the butt of someone’s joke. It made sense now, why Lennox had always laughed at what Sherlock said. It was shameful, how trusting Sherlock had been, how he had gone along with Lennox and enjoyed his company, flattered by the attention and believing that he would help.

And then for John to know how stupid Sherlock had been, and to have that proof thrust in his face…

Sherlock was humiliated. He wondered if everyone was laughing at him now. If there were whispers in the hallways about how naive he’d been, or what he’d allowed Lennox to do. Mrs. Hudson rubbed his back and slowly Sherlock’s sobs subsided. He hiccupped and she produced a handkerchief, mopping at his face.

“Now. Tell me what happened…”

* * *

 

The next few days were interminable.

The Duke of Lennox was gone, along with a small contingent of the Scottish delegation. The entire Royal Tour was thrown into question. The activities went on as planned, but with the notable absences of the two Northumbrian Princes and Prince John. There were rumors that the betrothal itself may be at an end.

Captain Lestrade escorted Lennox and the delegation personally to the port of Nice. He was gone for two days. The castle felt emptier without him in it.

No one knew precisely what had happened- and so naturally, everyone was an expert on the subject. Stories were told and re-told, and grew with each telling. That Sherlock had been taken advantage of was clear and for once, all the sympathy was firmly for Sherlock. He was such a sweet little thing. How could he have known about Alpha depravity? John was praised for his masterful handling of his uncle, demonstrable of what an extraordinary Alpha he was. But would he still want Sherlock if the Omega Prince was _soiled goods_? That was the question repeated again and again.

A letter was sent to the Queen informing her of everything. The entire castle held its breath, waiting for her response.

Mycroft refused to leave Sherlock’s side. Gently, treating Sherlock like he was made out of spun glass, Mycroft questioned Sherlock about what had happened, asking for a detailed account of each time Sherlock had spent with the Duke. He asked other questions that made them both uncomfortable and Mrs. Hudson tutted and made cup after cup of tea which remained undrunk. Sherlock’s room started to slowly look like a very elegant teahouse. Afterward, though looking relieved, Mycroft acted as if he expected Sherlock to go into hysterics any minute. He was constantly there, poised to console him, and Sherlock didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave. He also didn’t have the heart to ask Mycroft what the Duke had meant by everything he’d said, which he had repeated verbatim back to Mycroft. He could tell it was bad from the way Mycroft’s jaw had clenched and Sherlock overheard him telling Mrs. Hudson that he wished John “had killed the bastard. There are dungeons in this castle. They would have been at his full disposal, for however he wanted to use them. If he’d only asked me I would have let him know…”

Sherlock didn’t see John once.

Mycroft was in correspondence with him. The betrothal was still intact. John was recovering from his injuries from the fight with Lennox. He was keeping to his rooms, not leaving even for meals, and there were no invitations or requests to visit Sherlock.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about seeing John anyway. Part of him was keen. The other part was alarmed, embarrassed, and would have preferred to never lay eyes on John Watson ever again. He didn’t know what John thought of him now, if it was good or bad, if he thought Sherlock was a silly fool.

Mycroft had assured Sherlock that he’d done nothing wrong, but Sherlock didn’t know. He felt that he shouldn’t have gone behind John’s back with the lessons. It was very confusing. He wasn’t sleeping very well.

John’s man, Stamford, came to check on Sherlock, acting as John’s proxy. He took one look at Sherlock and Sherlock’s misery must have been plainer than he realized because Stamford’s lips compressed in a thin line. Sherlock didn’t think the disapproval was directed at him.

“I’ll have my Prince come and visit you this afternoon, Your Highness.” He vowed. “I’d request that you have tea ready but…” He twinkled at the assorted cups balanced on every available surface throughout the room, and Sherlock was coaxed into a wan smile. It didn’t seem good enough for Stamford.

“This afternoon.” He repeated, taking his leave with an abrupt bow.

* * *

John visited Sherlock like Stamford had promised, perching on the edge of a chair and doing his best to look non-threatening. The illusion was marred somewhat by his split lip and one of his eyes which was bruised a sickly green color. There was a scabbed over scrape on one of his cheeks and a smattering of bruises on the other. Sherlock’s eyes dropped to where John’s hands were clasped in his lap, taking in the bruised and scabbed knuckles, some of which were split, and winced. John hid his hands beneath his legs.

“I’m sorry if I scared you, Sherlock. I forgot that you were even still there, the other morning, or I never would have said what I did. Making you afraid of me is the last thing I would ever want to do.”

Surprised, Sherlock took one, fleeting look at John and then went back to staring at his own knees where his hands were balled into fists to keep them from shaking with nerves. “I’m not afraid of you.” Sherlock said. “But it was…what happened…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should have…I shouldn’t have acted like I did. I should have waited until you were gone before I did anything with my uncle. It was wrong of me to let you see that. I should have protected you better.”

Irritation flared and Sherlock did his best to suppress it. “I appreciate your apology but you can’t always protect me.”

“What?”

“I said you can’t always protect me. You can’t protect me from life.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t. And maybe I don’t want you to!” Sherlock didn’t know where his anger was coming from, but he was suddenly up and out of his seat, pacing away from John because he couldn’t stand to be near him anymore. He wanted as far away from him as possible.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m tired of everyone always thinking they need to _protect me_.” Sherlock grumbled. “I know that things are kept from me because it’s not proper and because I’m an Omega and I shouldn’t be told anything! It’s why…what happened with Lennox…it’s why it even happened in the first place.” Giving voice to everything he’d been thinking the last few days was both freeing and terrifying, all at the same time. He’d never even told Mycroft how he felt like this. “If I’d know about Alphas and Omega, about what things are like, if I’d known that Lennox was perverted and dangerous, I never would have allowed myself to spend time with him. But no one told me because they were afraid I’d wilt. Or keel over. I’m not as fragile as everyone thinks I am and the only reason they think that about me is because I’m not told anything and when I find it out it’s always sprung on me without warning. No one likes surprises, especially unpleasant ones. Like with the statue. If I’d been told then I would have handled the situation better. I wouldn’t have pretended to faint. But I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t…I didn’t know what else to do. I’m kept ignorant because I can’t handle anything, but I probably could if someone would just let me _try_.”

Sherlock leaned against the windowsill, resting his forehead against the cool glass. “Just wait until you’re older, Sherlock. You’ll know in a few years, Sherlock. You’re too young. That’s not appropriate-“ He broke off. “I hate not knowing things. I hate it. Would you like it if no one ever told you information that was important? Information that had to do with you? Information that you literally needed to know?” He spun back around, expecting mild censure from John, or maybe even anger, but the Alpha looked commiserating.

“No. I’d hate it too. I’m sorry. I’ve never really thought about how you’d feel. I guess I just assumed that if you didn’t know…then you didn’t know to be annoyed about what you didn’t…know.” He winced. “If that makes sense.”

“When I don’t know things, that just makes it easier for someone like Lennox to prey on that weakness.” Sherlock pointed out, and John nodded, resigned.

“You’re right. But Sherlock, I don’t blame you for what happened with Lennox. It was my fault for not protecting you better-“

“If you want to protect me better, tell me what Lennox meant.”

John’s eyes darted away, a dull blush staining his cheeks. It was ugly and contrasted with his bruises. “Sherlock…”

“What did he mean? When he was telling me about swords and you stabbing me?”

John’s blushed darkened. “That. Sherlock. You’re-“

“If you say I’m too young then you can get out.”

“No, I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say…that what Lennox said…it had to do…with sex.” John was obviously forcing himself to tell Sherlock, and while Sherlock appreciated the effort, he wanted to know more. He’d worked that much out himself. “And I was going to say that I’m not comfortable talking to you about that. Not right now.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to argue, but John held up a pleading hand.

“I promise that I won’t keep things from you anymore. Alright? I promise. And I promise that I will tell you anything- everything- you need to know. Lennox knew better than to put those thoughts in your head and I’ll explain what Lennox meant…later. Maybe…in a few more years. But I will explain it!” He rushed to finish, gazing pleadingly at Sherlock. “I just don’t feel comfortable having that discussion with you.”

Sherlock closed his mouth, debating.

“I promise that if you’ll wait a few years, I’ll explain it all to you. Every single thing my uncle said. And more. _Please_ , let’s wait until then. I don’t think I could handle that conversation right now.” John laughed nervously. “Maybe you’re not fragile, but I am.”

Sherlock knew when compromises had to be reached and he moved back to John and extended his hand for John to scent with the regal air of someone granting a boon. “You promise to explain everything in a few more years?”

John took his hand, relieved. “Yes. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise. I have lots of questions.” Sherlock said, and John looked very distressed.

* * *

 

They talked for hours.

Sherlock explained everything that had happened with Lennox, and John assured him again and again that he’d explain what had been meant by the Alpha in a few years. He also assured Sherlock that nothing had changed. He didn’t think he was silly. This was as much his fault as Lennox’s- which Sherlock was quick to refute.

By the time they finished, they’d had a private supper in Sherlock’s rooms, Sherlock’s voice was hoarse, and John was noticeably drooping where he sat. It was dark outside and the moon shone in at the window with pale, watery beams.

“I have one more question.” Sherlock said when John was about to leave. He’d waited to spring this on him at the very last, when John was tired and less likely to argue with him about it. “What?” “Will you teach me to fight like you did with Lennox?” He’d been shocked by the violence, but incredibly impressed, and Sherlock imagined being able to take someone who was bigger and stronger than he was down as capably as John had.

“No.”

“But John-“

“No, Sherlock. That’s too dangerous-“

“I want to be able to defend myself.” Sherlock argued. “If you teach me, I’ll never have to worry about someone grossly taking advantage of me.” Sherlock didn’t really know what that phrase meant, but he’d heard Mycroft use it a few times when he was talking to Mrs. Hudson, and it seemed to do the trick because John paused on the threshold, considering the idea. “If you won’t tell me everything Lennox meant, the next best thing is to teach me to defend myself in case someone tries what he did again.”

“They won’t. I’ll always be there.”

“You can’t be there around the clock.” Sherlock argued back, and he saw the exact moment John gave in, his shoulders slumping and all the fight draining out of him. Sherlock wanted to jump for joy.

“Fine. But this has to be kept a secret. You can’t tell anyone. Mycroft would have my head if he knew I was teaching you hand-to-hand combat. And you have to promise not to kick me in the bal- in the…between my legs again. Alright?”

“Alright!” Sherlock promised, skipping over to John and extending his wrist which John, after giving him a very dark look, took.

“You’ll be the death of me, Sherlock. Do you know that?”

Sherlock only grinned at him.

* * *

 

John was ready to collapse into bed, but when he turned the corner into the hallway where his suite of rooms were, he almost groaned. It seemed the night wasn’t over yet.

Captain Greg Lestrade, obviously just returned from escorting the Duke to Nice, was lounging against the wall outside the door to John’s rooms and when he saw him approaching, he bowed.

John’s eyes were itchy and he was sleepy. He’d just had a difficult conversation with his betrothed over very uncomfortable topics and the cruelty of his family. There was a warm bed and a bottle of aged scotch waiting for him in his rooms. He did not have time to mince words.

“What do you want?”

Captain Lestrade raised an eyebrow. It reminded John of Mycroft. “Your Highness?”

“I don't know what you're doing here at almost midnight, but whatever it is you've come for spit it out. And that’s what you’re supposed to call me. Yeah? But what was that stunt a few days ago? Hm? Why’d you call me 'Your Majesty'?"

“Did Prince Mycroft tell you why you were chosen for the betrothal with Sherlock?”

John shrugged. “Lost a bet?”

“You know there were other, richer families they could’ve aligned themselves with. More advantageous prospects. Mycroft was offered more gold than the coffers in Scotland have ever seen since they’ve been built in exchange for the opportunity to marry Prince Sherlock.”

John scowled. He didn’t know why Lestrade was telling him this. If the man had wanted to insult him, he certainly had an odd way of doing it after showing him the utmost respect in front of everyone in the training yard.

“You were chosen because none of that mattered. The greatest possession, the greatest jewel in Northumbria, to Mycroft will always be his brother and his happiness. He puts Sherlock above everything. He chose you because he thought you would be good to his brother. Your mother interceded on your behalf when your father acted like a selfish prick, and Mycroft and I talked about you for days. Not whether or not you’d be a good ruler, of if you were the best choice for Northumbria…but if you were the best choice for Sherlock. If you were the Alpha who’d protect him and look after him, respect and admire and love him…”

“I don’t love him.” John hurried to say. “Sherlock’s a child-“

“You don’t have to be in love with someone to love them.” Captain Lestrade pointed out with annoying patience. “If you are willing to risk your life for Sherlock- if you’re willing to do everything you said you would to protect him and make him happy…I’ll proudly serve your kingship. You have my unswerving loyalty.”

John reeled. He didn’t know what to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to figure it out. Captain Lestrade bowed and moved past him down the hall, disappearing out of sight, leaving John staring after him, open-mouthed.

John opened the door to his suite, half-expecting Mycroft Holmes to be waiting for him in the dark, but there was no one. He put himself to bed, first pouring a glass of scotch, heartily sick of the Holmes, Northumbria, and dramatic Captains.

But when he finally went to sleep, he was peaceful and content. He had no idea what the next day would bring, or what outlandish thing Sherlock would do to keep him on his toes, but John was excited to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if that was not what everyone wanted. I know Lennox deserved everything John said to him- and more- but in keeping with the historical context, and the fact that it's just not possible to start executing members of foreign nobility without a trial/witnesses/a court system (even if that is the ruling monarch) the ties between Scotland and Northumbria would have totally broken down, a war would have loomed if the King of Scotland were pissed off enough (he would have been, Lennox was a member of his family) and Sherlock's character would have been dragged through the mud by Lennox and the rest of his family to save himself. Tossing him out of the country and banning him from returning was the "safe" and correct course of action, and possibly to pay a fine for insulting Sherlock and John. Otherwise...

**Author's Note:**

> Everything's fine. I promise.


End file.
